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over death. And so that I might in some way give thanks to the Almighty for the miracle of my rebirth, and give praise to our Lord and Savior, I will serve Communion in Saint Patricks Cathedral on that most reverent of days, Easter Sunday. . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, I can hardly
talk. There is not a dry eye anywhere to be seen. Cardinal Leterman is crying as freely as the rest of us and his face is one big smile as he blesses the people and is helped into his car. As you can hear, there is still a hush over the crowd, and as you can see, they are all standing absolutely still in complete reverence for this man who is so universally loved that he has been called not only a man of God, but a man of the world, loved by one and all regardless of what God they may worship. His car is slowly pulling away from the curb and— O, my God, ladies and gentlemen, people are starting to peel away from the crowd and lay down their palms in front of the Cardinals car. In all my thirty years of broadcasting I have never seen anything like this in my life. The Cardinals car is just barely moving and men and women and children are stepping into the middle of the street to lay down their palm leaves. This is the greatest demonstration of love I have ever seen, and needless to say no one is more deserving of it than Cardinal Leterman. As far as the eye can see down Fifth Avenue people are laying down palms and bowing their heads as the Cardinals car slowly passes by, the Cardinal giving the people his blessing. . . .
Harry stared at the television screen as the car of Cardinal Leterman slowly moved along Fifth Avenue and eventually the scene faded and the station identified itself and a studio announcer informed him that he had just seen a special program presented by the stations news bureau and the voice quickly faded into a hum and Harry continued to stare in front of him, not noticing and not listening. . . .
It
droned on and on and Harry was aware only of the hollowness within him that grew and grew and seemed to twist itself
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around his throat, trying to tug it down into that grinding, sickening and bottomless pit. He lay his hands upon his stomach and rubbed firmly, unconsciously trying to stuff the hole in his gut and stop the wind from blowing through.
He sat and
stared, his hands stuffed in his gut, for a short, painful eternity. Various images flipped and jerked on and off the screen as a series of commercials followed each other, but he did not see nor hear them. He stared. He stared from a hollowness into a hollowness. He stared from a pit into a pit—from a conclusion to a beginning. . . .
He stood . . .
slowly. The hollowness deepened. The pit deepened. His mouth was flushed with lead. The initial movement was painful. He stopped. His head whirled. He clutched his gut. He moved. Got a jacket. He left the house.
The train—yet again,
yet again, yet again, yet again, yet again—the city and an endless subway ride—with a blotter, with a blotter—and a walk to the playground, and Harry, who had been playing in right center for the pull hitter, ran with the thud of the bat toward the right field fence. The Swenson coaches were waving their arms and screaming at their teammates to run, run ya son of a bitch, and the man from third had already crossed the plate and the man from second was halfway home when Harry leaped in the air and crashed into the fence, his glove hand high over his head, just a fraction of a second before the ball, and the ball thumped into his glove. As he bounced off the fence he held the ball with both hands and cradled it in his gut as he rolled over on the concrete, unwound and stood and threw the ball to the first baseman, who easily doubled the man off first and then whipped it to the second baseman for a quick and simple triple play. The entire Swenson team, and their fans, stood in open-mouthed disbelief. Harry grinned from ear to ear as he trotted off the field, the Casey team and fans yelling, cheering, whistling and jumping all over him and thumping and patting him on the back and throwing their gloves at him, and when Harry
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got up to bat there were two men on base and the pitcher
looked at him with obvious rage and threw the first pitch at
his head and Harry jerked back his head and smiled at the
pitcher while the Caseys yelled and screamed and called him
a punk headhunter and the Swensons yelled, no hitter, easy
out, and Harry stepped in and took another pitch in tight but
the next one got away from the pitcher and Harry leaned into
it and sent a rifle shot over the center fielders head and the
ball rolled to the farthermost corner of the field and the Casey
coaches had their hats in their hands as they waved the runners
around the bases and Harrys hat leaped from his head as he
rounded second and he gave an extra burst as he saw the
coach waving him on and around and he thundered down the
third base line and bounced on home plate as the second base
man picked up the ball in short center and threw it over the
head of the catcher who just stood there and let it fly into the
backstop and Harrys teammates and fans mobbed him again
and thumped and pounded and slapped and yelled and
screamed and hollered jubilantly and Harry could feel the
pride in his eyes as he saw it in their eyes and he smiled and,
laughed and yelled along with them, and the gray fence felt
chilled as he leaned against it and looked at the gray sidewalk
and gray concrete of the playground and the sky was turning
a gunmetal gray and as the sun got lower and dimmer the
breeze seemed to increase and the chill penetrated him as he
leaned against the gray wire fence around the playground and
he stared at and through the playing field and he knew it could
not possibly be ten years later but it was and no matter how
he thought about time or changed the point of reference it was
still ten years and now a decade later there was something
wrong and thinking about it was futile and how much longer
could he fight it whatever it was, and he looked at the grayness
around him and felt it seething through his body and no matter
what happened or did not happen he was still on this side of
the fence and there was no way he could get to the other side
again . . . never! the grayness made that
obvious and undeniable, and Harry finally turned and left
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the gray fence and gray playground and walked down the gray street, his eyes seeing every crack and little imperfection in the concrete
down the steps covered with gum and cigarette butts into the gray subway hole—yet again—and the lonely ride to the end of the line and out to the ending of a day and through a gray wind blowing through a mocking Coney Island, and he stood on the boardwalk with his face to the wind and looked at the meeting of gray water and gray sky and the gray sogginess of the surf and sand and leaned against the railing for another eternity feeling his body shiver with a chill but refusing to be a part of the gray cold that shook him and stood with his hands in his pockets, his fists clenched, and stared at the intermingling and changing grayness until once again the darkness surrounded him.
He moved through the gloom and mocking glare of the ancient and occasional carnylike lights that were still scattered around the once popular playland. It was like living in the midst of the ruins of ancient history, like having been displaced in space and time, looking at the splintered and poster-plastered fronts of closed stands and rides remembering in spite of circumstances the gaiety and laughter of lifetimes lived long ago and hearing the lights and excitement in his head but being completely detached from them as if it were a stranger who laughed and sparkled with joy. There were the memories of foamy root beer and his grandmother and grandfather and saltwater taffy, but the memories belonged to someone
else, someone who was still living here in this ancient age. Maybe the colors of the remaining lights were still the same garish colors of those ancient time but they felt gray and, as they split the darkness, all they did was to make the cracks in the sidewalk plainer.
He checked into a drab hotel and sat, fully clothed, on the bed and leaned against the headboard. He fought against sleep and those faces that hung before him, and the light that was now taking the form of another face and drifting toward the others, but from time to time his head fell forward and
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was dragged into sleep, then jerked awake as he struggled to free himself of the past and the future.
It did not
seem possible that he could be there, that what had happened really had happened and was not a dream from which he would awake and find everything as it should be. But this was not the case. And though he tried to resist, there was an inevitable force tugging him deeper and deeper into his blackness and he could sense the futility of the fight.
He was Harry White, Executive Vice-President, and had been for quite a few years. He was respected and admired by his peers. A man of influence. He had a wife and a son and a daughter. A beautiful family that he loved and that was very precious to him. And they loved him. This he knew. He had a beautiful home in Westchester. He was a success. Harry White was a successful man . . .
and, O God, he just wanted to die ...
to find relief from this cancer that was eating him ...
just a little relief . . .
thats all ...
just
a
little
relief
He spent the next day sitting on the boardwalk, staring at the ocean. The cool breeze whipped up white caps and scudded sand across the beach. From time to time someone would walk by, but Harry remained deeply isolated within his loneliness and the despair of shame. He stared at the horizon and vaguely heard the surf and the sand scratching against the boardwalk and sank deeper and deeper into the jaws of his demon.
When he had not returned by midnight, Linda called the police, then Walt. The police were kind and courteous, but answering the questions was still painful for her. Yes, he had
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been acting strange lately, as if there were something on his mind. No, she did not know what might be wrong. No, she did not think he was seeing another woman. Yes, he had seen a psychiatrist, Dr. Martin, but he hadnt been going to him for some time. No, I have no idea where he might be or if he left the house of his own free will and she gave them a photograph and Walt got there and answered their questions and told them the thing that was on his mind was an important business problem and impressed them with the urgency of finding Harry immediately and eventually the police left and Walt remained with Linda until he was certain she was all right, then he too left and Linda finally went to bed and cried herself into a fitful and restless sleep.
The following day Lindas mother and Harrys mother came to comfort and help her. They all tried to keep themselves occupied so as not to think about Harry, but they were constantly noticing the look in one anothers eyes and the fear and anguish behind them.
Wentworth related the events, such as he knew them, to the other members of the board at a hastily called meeting. It was immediately decided that Walt would review what Harry had done to date and see what he could do to continue the work. In addition, an emergency call was placed to Von Landor. In the meantime, all possible pressure would be applied so the proper authorities would intensify the search for Harry and locate him as rapidly as possible.
The sun had long since disappeared from sight and memory, and Harry continued to sit on the boardwalk and stare straight ahead. He seemed somehow to be locked in that position. The wind increased and now the sand rasped against his face and the surf pounded in the gray distance. Eventually he wearily stood up and turned his back on the unseen horizon and walked back to the hotel. He sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard and staring at his shoes .. .
then took
them off and undressed and got between the sheets and pulled the covers tight against his neck and slept.
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The next day he checked out of the hotel and started to make an endless round of stores and shops, both large and small. He roamed back and forth across the island of Manhattan, along the avenues and side streets, moving as slowly as possible. He only had one item to buy and had plenty of time to find exactly the right one.
His family waited. Hoping. Trying to get through each tense and endless day. They leaped to the phone when it rang. Linda continually tried to believe there was hope, but everything inside her was dead. She mouthed the words for the others. But she knew. She just knew.
Time no longer had any real meaning for Harry. The time of day and the day of the week were mere designations. Hours passed and days passed. On Saturday morning he found exactly what he wanted. The gold plating on the long carved handle was exquisite. It was stunningly beautiful resting on the purple velvet in the case.
He walked up Fifth Avenue to Central Park and sat by the lake with the gliding ducks and reflection of the skyscrapers. He sat. All day. And stared. Stared with the same numbness with which he had stared at the ocean, walked the streets and gone through the stores and shops. A numbness that alienated him from his feelings. It was the numbness and alienation that allowed him to do what he had to do. ... That numbness . . . Deadness. The deadness that kept him alive. Allowed him to move. But sweet and eternal death, how long would it last? How long would he be free from the black and bottomless pit of Harry White? He sat. Listening to the faint churnings in his head. Feeling the difference when a dark cloud covered the sun. Then it would move on. It was warm. The sun. His bones could feel it. Funny. Seems like years since he felt heat. Or cold. He sat. Stared. The ducks rippled the skyscrapers in the lake. They melted into themselves. Harry shuddered. They never became completely whole. Almost. Then another ripple. And melting. He stared. Sat. And stared. The sun on his face. Flashing from the water. God is in his heaven. Shit! So is Ra. RA! RA! RA! All the same shit!!!! The sun moved through
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the lake. Behind trees. Long shadows. Chill. Chilling. All shadows. Squint of sun . . . Colder . . . Darker . . . Night!
Black night . . .
Black night! Black night! Black night!
Ice ... In the bones.
Ice. Frozen marrow. Grinding cold. Dark. Black night, Lights twinkle in lake. Like Xmas. Yellow light near bench. Hangs over Harry. His shadow folds under bench. Under him. Behind him. In him. Lights in lake twinkle. Grinding cold. Quivering. A moon ignores him. Looks at self and smiles. Lake ripples with many moons. The black night is thicker. Yellow light on bench. Alone. No one. Alone with the night. Alone with the lake. Alone with the moon and twinkling lights. Alone with him. The cold firing his feelings. The cold bringing life. Life! LIFE!!!! O Jesus, no. NO! NOOOOOOO!!!!
His
head fell forward and he wrapped his arms around it as it hung from his neck....
Why does it have to be???? Why? Why?
He clutched his package to his stomach and bent over and rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth again and again and again
yet a-
gain as his gut and groin became alive with those feelings of ancient history and he shivered for many long and painful seconds upon seconds that piled into an eternity and he could feel the tugging at the back of his throat and he could feel the faces melting and the third one coming closer and becoming more and more distinct and he could feel the laughter of his children and the softness and warmth of his wife and the pain in her eyes, and his frozen and aching body threatened to snap as he forced and pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the bench trying to straighten his body but staying bent and gnarled in the yellowness of the lamp on the edge of
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the path and he felt the screeching within him and the terrible conflict as he became a battleground for the h
ounds of heaven and the hounds of hell and the hounds of hell were ripping and tearing his flesh and growing wilder and more insane from the smell and taste of blood and the hounds of heaven stood in absolute silence and immobility waiting and the hounds of hell looked mockingly and tauntingly at them while tearing and ripping more flesh from the entrails of Harry White because they knew they were safe, that they did not have to fear the hounds of heaven, who could devour them with quickness beyond the measure of time and restore the bloodied and festering battleground to its proper state, because they knew the hounds of heaven had to be asked to join the battle and they knew that that plea would never come and that the hounds of heaven would have to wait and watch in absolute silence and immobility while they continued their ripping and tearing of the flesh of Harry White and rolled their crazed heads in his blood, their eyes inflamed with their madness, and they moved defiantly and mockingly toward the hounds of heaven and spit the blood and splattered flesh of Harry White in their faces and wailed and bayed with defiance as the hounds of heaven stood in absolute silence and immobility waiting and enduring and hoping they would hear the word that would allow them to dispel the blood-crazed madness that was rending and destroying and mocking them as well as the flesh they were tearing, and they waited and waited for the word, hearing the anguish of Harry White as he was being devoured and hoping that his pain and suffering had been enough so he would scream out for help but the hounds of hell came closer and splattered them again with the mutilated flesh of Harry White as he clutched his package close to him and walked slowly up the familiar path to Fifth Avenue and then turned and started walking in the direction of St. Patricks Cathedral. He walked alone. There were automobiles. But he walked alone. There was an occasional individual or two. Yet he walked alone. There was no one with Harry. Except for the inner man, and there the battle continued. But here, on the
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