1
Harry sighed and closed his eyes.
“So, same dream,” Dr. Richard Arnot said, scribbling on a note pad. He eyed his camcorder. “Okay... Harry, I’d like to try something different, if you don’t mind.”
Harry lay back in a comfortable recliner, eyes closed. Without opening them, he said, “Anything.”
“As you know, hypnosis has been used for centuries—”
“Oh, no, you’re not telling me you believe in that stuff,” Harry said, opening his eyes and sitting back up.
Raising a cautionary hand, Arnot said, “Now, Harry... all hypnosis is, is focused, relaxed concentration. Every one of us do it every day when we’re so tuned in to whatever it is we’re doing to the exclusion of our spouse’s questions, the noise outside our offices... whatever. What I’d like to try, with your permission, is a clinical version of it. I’m not going to tick-tock you out, or anything like that, but I am going to ask you to relax, then we’re going to play a mind game of sorts—a free association. You’ll have total control over it—if you don’t want to play, you can stop at any time. Up for it?”
“You mean I just kick back and say whatever comes to mind?”
“Exactly. And don’t worry if it’s right or wrong or feels made up.”
Harry paused for a moment. “Alright.”
“Okay, I’d like you to relax... just think of a relaxing scene that’s pleasing to you. Tell me when you have one.”
Harry didn’t immediately reply, but soon found himself enjoying an almost immediate sense of a deep, relaxing calm. He sat along a beach, eyes closed, and allowed the soothing sound of the breakers to wash over him.
“Okay... I have one... I’m on a beach, listening to the waves....”
“Good, good... now just follow the deep, relaxing sounds of those waves,” Arnot coached. “Enjoy the rhythmic sounds of the ocean, the birds screeching above, the wind in your hair... you inhale deeply of ocean air... hold it—then let it out.”
Harry did as instructed.
“Now, do this a couple more times... at your own pace.”
Dr. Arnot waited patiently for Harry to complete several more cycles before continuing.
“Harry,” he said, his voice taking on more authority, “I want you to blank out your mind. You’re still sitting on that beach, but I want you to close your eyes and not think about the breakers any longer... I want you to drift inward... to be at home and at ease in the warm, comfortable blackness of your mind... it’s a secure, restful, place... just drift about, not consciously trying to think about anything in particular... you’ll shortly see shapes and colors gradually forming out of the darkness... passing by and through you... all kinds of shapes and colors....”
Harry did see shapes and colors and allowed them to emerge and fly past, when an image of a squat Oriental structure flashed through his mind.
“Now... what is the first image that comes to mind... no need to rush—”
“I see an Oriental structure. A house of some kind. Low and flat.”
“A house?”
“Atop a mountain... by a cliff.”
“What else can you tell me... look around, turn around.”
“Well... and this is kind of weird—am I making this up?”
“Doesn’t matter, Harry, we’re playing a game, remember? Go with it.”
“Well, I don’t so much as ‘see’ as feel things. Does that make sense?”
Arnot nodded. “Just go with it, Harry. Do you see yourself?”
“I seem to have visual images without the images, is the only way to describe it, though sometimes I do seem to actually see something.” Harry chuckled. “I feel like I’m this—a warrior-philosopher—enjoying a sunrise. He—me—stands on an overlook looking out over what appears to be Mount Fuji... there’s a beautiful sunrise... I feel at one with myself and life... calm yet powerful....”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three comes to mind.”
“What year is it?”
“I’m unconcerned with time, the year... it’s... a non-issue... I’m here on a mission.”
Amused, Arnot quietly continued to scribble notes and checked the camcorder.
“What are you wearing?”
Harry again paused. Internally, without seeing, he “looked” down to himself.
“I’m wearing a heavy, stiff—I can actually feel the stiffness of it—overgarment, over white undergarments.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Why are you asking me these questions? Can’t you come up with something more important... more constructive to the session? My clothing—the time—simply aren’t important....”
Arnot raised an eyebrow, jotting down the observation.
“... my garment is brown. On the upper portions of it is a gold sash that crosses from the shoulders to the waist. The entire outfit is ornate, the gold... embroidered....”
Arnot sat quietly, amused, scribbling on his pad and again checked the camcorder. “Amazing....”
“I’m wearing wooden sandals. I have a sword... my hair... is black... ponytailed, but only shoulder length or so...
“I’m powerful and confident... a good fighter, but don’t like fighting. I became a warrior out of need. I consider myself... a philosopher-teacher. I have much to teach, and learn, and were I to... publicly... come out with my views, I’d be put to death—”
“What views?”
“—so I became a warrior... and take to solitude and travel... I’m very good at being a warrior. I’ve done this many times before and since....”
“You have a name?”
“Kioshu.”
“Incredible....” Dr. Arnot again said to himself, continuing to scribble madly.
“I consider myself... journeying—that wherever I am I’m just visiting—philosophically... physically—journeying through life. This is but a stop for me. I live alone in that meager dwelling. Behind it, where I’m standing, are colorful flowers and other vegetation. There’s a dirt and stone path leading back to the house... as I stand with my back to the cliff and face the house, off to my right, is an incline into lush, heavily vegetated mountains, which I find beautiful and soothing. There’s no real path, though, but I, and others, have walked it so frequently there’s a worn trail. In the distance are high mountains with low cloud cover. It’s spiritually dense, here... I love it....”
“Where does the path lead?”
“I take to this incline and walk with only the clothes I’m wearing, my sword... I feel it’s my mission to help those who seek me out—but also for me to learn... I just go where my journeys take me....”
“What’s the next important incident that comes of walking this path?”
“I come to an ancient temple hidden just off the trail. I feel this is one of the reasons I’ve come to live here... it’s extremely secluded, this temple, which is tall and very narrow—or it’s the façade of whatever’s left of this temple. It’s abandoned. I stand before it and smile. Amused. I think: good effort... for children. I understand why the temple was built... I feel that those who built this, as do all people, make their best attempts at understanding life, however misguided, and that it is the intent toward understanding and the bettering of life that counts. I do not agree with the belief systems of my time... and feel it is my chosen... my chosen ‘task’... to help others understand... and that being a warrior is... a ‘necessary compromise’... to better serve this end.
“I continue along this path and have images of conflict and battle—but do not engage in any. I am a teacher, to teach whoever’ll listen and ask of my help—I teach whatever they come to learn—it’s different with each traveler. But I also learn....”
“What lesson do you feel you’ve learned in your life as Kioshu?”
“Sanctity of life. That, as I stated, I had to make certain... ‘agreements’... to kill... so the ‘greater good’ could also come across to those I wouldn’t normally have interacted with and who most need the teaching. I also,” Harry said, and here he smiled, “there is something about the feel of physical objects, a sword—though not in using it to kill—but in its inherent feel, its use in practice—kendo. There’s a certain... heft... to steel and sword. I draw a metaphor between the sword and life: both are double-edged. It is the intent of the wielder to make each what it is.”
“Are you still okay, in this life?” Arnot asked.
“Ask what you want.”
Arnot again raised an eyebrow.
“I’d like for you to jump ahead in time... to the next significant event in your life—”
“I’m thirty-five... confronting bandits. Two of them. I’m protecting peasants in a field... I have extreme... conflicting... emotions....”
“I...,” Harry began, but his voice grew thick, his face strained and contorted in pain.
“I’m ambivalent about helping these peasants and those I will soon dispatch. I’m frustrated these men are doing what they do!
“A third man is behind them, on a large horse with bow and arrow—he’s dressed as me. Watches us. I’m extremely angered... these bandits, their greed... but if they continue, then fine, they’ll die... and I kill them—”
“All of them?”
“Only the two before me.
“I look to the horseman and sense he wants to kill me... but for some reason does not. He says nothing and calmly turns away without ever looking back...
“I’m greatly saddened. These people—including the peasants—only see the exterior manifestations and do not realize I have not really killed anyone. They will not understand the greater philosophical ramifications... and I am a teacher, a—a... Kyoshi... it is my passion to teach. I grow weary with killing, but continue on my path, because there are still lessons to learn. Don’t know why I choose not to fight—except that there is still... a ‘greater good,’ something I have not learned... that seems in the best interest, yet....”
“Okay,” Arnot said, “I’m bringing you back... you’re no longer in that field... you’re back in this room, with me, in the present... slowly returning... returning... you are now Harry Gordon, prosecutor for the state of Florida, in the town of Sunset Harbor... coming back... when I count to one, you will be back, alert, and conscious of all that occurred... three... two... one.”
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he said nothing, trying to coax his face awake, widening his eyes and stretching open his mouth. He cleared his throat.
“Wow... that was, uh... incredible.
“Got a cigarette?”
Arnot chuckled and jotted his final notes.
“I... I can’t believe that. There’s no way any of that could be real—”
“It’s as real as you choose it to be,” Arnot said.
“But it felt like I was making it up the entire time.”
“That’s okay,” Arnot reemphasized, leaning back, and again scribbling on his note pad. “All I was trying to do was get past your daily filter and see what the big, underlying issue you might have had lurking about beneath your consciousness... I never expected any of that.”
“Come on—how could any of that be for real—”
“Why not? Because it felt ‘made up’? Don’t worry so much about whether or not it’s fake—for now. Just realize that for some reason, this... ‘other you,’ for lack of a better term, this Kioshu... surfaced. Made himself known—”
“But I’m not even a fan of Asian culture! Nothing against it, I’ve just never been all that interested in it.”
“Try to understand what this information might mean symbolically. It doesn’t have to be a literal interpretation. For example, it might just symbolize an internal struggle going on within... as we already seem to feel there is. The Asian theme might have come from something you saw—or heard—earlier.”
“Well... I was talking with an associate about an Oriental urn a client had given me.”
“There you go. Just give it some thought. The mind is extremely creative... as you just experienced. Don’t judge it... just try to understand it... what it might mean on other levels. Give it time.”
Harry nodded, pensively.
2
The police undid Tiger’s handcuffs and turned him loose inside Port Charlotte’s city lock-up. He’d been traded one cell for another, though, in here, Tiger mused, he doubted whether anyone really gave a shit about a whacked out, injured, alleged murderer. Those days were over, he was pretty certain. He rubbed his wrists and shook his head. The wind was still there, whistling around in his messed-up psyche, though subdued and still somewhat drugged, and his skin still itched like crazy. Eighteen hundred fire ants had nibbled at his flesh and injected their poison. Pretty impressive for a homeless guy.
Damn, how it itched, though.
He raked away at his stomach and arms and legs as he approached his cell-door’s viewport. An empty hallway with other similar cells lining the rest of the detention center. As he left the cell door, he heard a subtle, scratching, sound. He followed it to one of his walls and placed an ear against it. Scratching? Rubbing? Someone next door must be busy. He shrugged it off, and returned his attention to his new home. At least now he had a roof over his head... and for the rest of his life.
So, he had that going for him.
The cop who’d escorted him in kept joking that he’d better enjoy his stay while he had it. Life was short—shorter for convicted killers. Everyone’s a comic. They knew nothing. Nothing about him... or what’d actually happened. Not that he knew exactly what’d happened, but he knew a damned-sight more than they thought they did.
Tiger threw himself down on his new bed and a forearm across his face (vigorously scratching at areas of itchy ant attack wounds).
What the hell had he done?
What the hell had become of his life? From the high-rises of New York City... to this? He used to think life was funny... but this wasn’t. Funny was rags-to-riches-to-rags... not funny was riches-to-rags-to-murder. People used to pay him well for his advice, now he couldn’t get a dime for the time of day. And he’d brought it all on himself.
He’d run away.
Disappeared from society.
Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Nailed. He was stuck in his ten-by-twelve rent-controlled, heavily fortified, apartment. Awaiting death. Just like the rest of the mob who’d also wandered into that sleepy little retirement home and also began to whack away at the residents, one, by one, by...
Why?
What the hell had possessed them... did they all have that same storm raging about inside them... that same hellish noise screaming around inside their souls? The evil nightmares and images that just wouldn’t go away—that remained with you even when you opened your eyes? Did the others taste sand in their teeth and tremble to the thunder of unseen hooves?
Death was ever so welcomed.
Tiger stared at the solemn gray jail-cell door. He’d wished he’d been able to OD while at the hospital, but he’d been too weak, and too, well, guarded. Round the clock. Suicide watch. Shit, why not just let him do it and save the taxpayers a hit? But that wasn’t how civilized folk did things, was it? We needed drama. Something to make us feel important, something with which to compare our dull, daily, existences against. Due process, we called it. He figured it was more akin to the old Roman gladiators... only more civilized... refined. And lawyers, judges, and the media all needed their cut. Bored humans needed something to do while alive and kicking about on this lump of dirt, flying through lonely, empty space. Watch the condemned man (or woman!) kick in their final moments to give those not in their shoes a sense of safety. Superiority! That no matter how bad a day ours was, no matter how bad our lives were, they weren’t nearly as bad as the poor schmuck now being paraded about in front of them, in this new, civilized arena we called the courtroom...
3
If nothing else, Tiger was eternally grateful for the lack of fire ants. The hungry little bastards that just hadn’t stopped biting. He was pretty sure they shouldn’t be able to get at him from here... almost sure. He didn’t know if anything was for certain any more. All bets were off on just about anything, as far as he was concerned. Was the sun coming up tomorrow? Wasn’t placing any odds. He never would have placed himself in a jail cell even a year ago, though he definitely would have placed himself on the streets. But a few years before that was when his world began to fall apart, his mental landscape slowly, methodically, peeled away like a rancid onion. He began hearing wind, lots of it—yet there was none. Or felt hot during the dead of winter. Tasted sand in the streets of New York. Yes... that was when his life began to take a turn for the worst... and he thought foraging for food out of dumpsters had been bad...
* * *
... the streets of New York were many things to many people. To some it represented excitement and culture, to others loneliness and despair. To still others... both. On one frigid December morning, Tiger slept beneath the Manhattan Bridge, between Chinatown and the East River. He’d been homesteading there for the past couple months, hidden within a city he’d long since lost interest in. Curled up within spent cardboard boxes and other pieces of rubbish, with the remains of moth-eaten blankets, an Army field jacket, and other ragged and decaying trappings he’d been carrying about in his shopping cart—which also doubled for one side of his makeshift home. He’d lead a fairly simple, nondescript existence. He came as he wanted, left as he needed. Sure, it’d made other aspects of life difficult... like entertaining, finding food, booze, and a warm pair of anything, but, hey, that’s what he’d chosen, right? He’d left his previous existence for this; it had been his choice—no one else was to blame. And maybe that was the problem... too much blame. “Tiger,” was as he’d come to be called one day early on, after having put up quite a fight when cornered by several homeless attackers who’d decided they’d needed his rather fine threads more than he did. He ended up keeping them then, but they, like everything else in his new world, eventually decayed and fell away, and he found himself curled up in a disgusting trash heap in a back alley of New York City, trying to keep from getting additional frostbite. He couldn’t feel his ears any longer, his fingers, nor (for that matter) his pride. And the fact that it was snowing like a son-of-a-bitch didn’t much help matters. Life just fucking sucked, and he’d accepted the need to die... to languish away into another troubled sleep and secretly expire alone and in obscurity among the other street refuse. He’d picked his life, and he’d pick his death. It was all right, he reassured himself, as he shivered among the cardboard and newspapers like just another piece of refuse. You just did the best you could until you couldn’t any more, that’s all. Until you reached the end of your road. There was no harm in picking the time of your passing. He’d tried his best.
So the new-him called Tiger closed his eyes and tried not to let the shivering bother him much. If he could just keep his mind off the cold, maybe the cold would take him away from all his other worries...
But, like the street, there was no easy way out of anything. That’s when he, sometime later (time meant little, except that he still had some), was jerked awake. Not in the way of hypothermia, but in that something, or someone, was pulling on him, one of his feet, and bitterly yanking him back to full wakefulness. He’d found shadows hunched and huddled over him, pulling at his boots. No sooner had he tried to, groggily, arise from his welcomed death slumber, when another shadow flew past, and he saw stars and experienced a heavy crack to the head. He flailed at his attackers, kicked wildly, when suddenly both his boots slipped free from his frozen feet. Still conscious, he renewed his attack, while at the same time experienced additional painful attacks about his body. Kicking wildly, he felt some of his blows land solidly into soft matter and saw through his clubbed haze that the shadows were finally retreating. As he fumbled about in the loose trash for a hold, the shadows again attacked. He was now able to make out that they were, indeed, men—of course—as they beat and pummeled the shit out of him with a busted-up two-by-four, but before he could gain an upright position, they split. He heard them trample their noisy, flailing way out of the alley, leaving his socked feet bootless, one sock pulled completely off, the other half-way. Bleeding and dizzy from the thumping, Tiger staggered to his feet and peered after his assailants under a quickly swelling lump over one eye. He spit out blood and a tooth or two from swollen and cut lips, which quickly froze over.
And still it snowed.
Whether it be from pure attitude or the incoherency that came with approaching death, Tiger followed his attackers out into the snowy, freezing streets of a dark, forgotten part of the city. His attackers were long gone, as was his life. He didn’t need no stinkin shoes no more, because, he realized, he didn’t need no stinkin life, no more, neither.
What the fuck, right?
He was already frozen and useless—why not add shoeless? Why fight it? Take it like the man he used to be. Take responsibility for your actions. Confront it head on. No flinching.
The snow still made its way down, but away from the confines of the alley he found wind, bitter and cutting, also slicing through the urban canyons called streets. The streetlights bathed everything in their eerie, snowy, glow. Perfect way to go, he thought, cozy and alone, staggering on one socked, and one unsocked, foot. Tiger made his way out to meet his Maker. He may not die with his boots on, but he’d die standing up, confronting it head on.
Stumbling and sliding on cold, snow-packed streets, he watched the snowflakes alight on the ground before him and smiled. He remembered the days he’d spent as a kid out in his backyard watching it snow. Sometimes he’d lay down in the snow and just watch it all fall down directly on him—then his mother’d find him and yell at him to get up off of the ground—what, did he want to catch his death of cold? No, ma, he’d respond back, struggling up in his bulky snow suit, brushing himself off. But, for just a moment there, when all was hushed, and he could actually hear the snow land on the ground, he felt all was right with the world, and always would be...
And that was how Tiger felt, now, collapsed onto the snow-packed streets of New York City, feeling the snow alight upon his face. He could even hear it hitting the ground. He smiled. He was about to close his eyes one last time, when something else startled him. Something dark and swift. Something that actually reengaged his mind back into action. Angling his head into better position, he craned his neck to see... a horse. And rider. Positioning his body a little more, he was able to get a better perspective and saw the cop. He smiled. Go ahead, ticket him. This was one fine he wasn’t ever going to collect, and closed his eyes...
But something about the rider wouldn’t stay still in his mind and Tiger again opened his eyes. There seemed to be... renewed energy... seeping into his weary limbs, his weary mind, and he found himself able to, surprisingly, push himself upright. Through his incoherency and the ever continuing heavy blanket of falling snow, he again focused on the rider.
It wasn’t a cop.
The rider sat silent and motionless, seemingly unaffected by the cold and snow, as the horse snorted and stomped about, whinnying huge fountains of vapor into the air. The rider turned slightly to its right, and pointed its pike—pike?—down to street level.
Tiger looked in the direction beckoned.
Again, another surge of renewed energy coursed through, not only his body, but his soul. He had no choice but to stand.
Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet.
Bent over and staggering against wind and snow, he felt impelled toward the direction of the pike. Going against the wind, he dragged himself to where the rider directed and found the pike pointing to a steam vent at the entrance to another alley. Tiger hurried to the vent and collapsed atop it, allowing... willing... the warmth to penetrate his ice-enshrouded mind and body. He curled up into the fetal position, drawing up his feet over the vent. He didn’t know how long he lay there, but gradually and now, even painfully, physical sensation returned. And when he again looked up, the rider was still there, only this time down inside the alley. The horse continued to snort and stomp, but, now, at its hooves, lay a bundle of rags. Loathing at having to leave the warmth of his vent Tiger was again made to move... and as he approached the rider and bit-chomping horse, saw the bundle was actually a body—a frozen body. A dead man with boots and an overcoat.
His boots.
Wasting no time, Tiger frantically stripped the corpse of its boots and socks, and the thick overcoat he’d no longer be needing, and returned to his vent. It was then, as everything warmed up, and he lay, finally feeling human again and having a desire to remain that way—alive—that the other wind began its assault. Another wind blast, not of this blizzard, seared through him... his consciousness. As he huddled, eyes closed, he heard the mount again stomp and snort, the rattling of the rider’s accouterments cutting through the blizzard. He looked up to find horse and rider rearing, the horse’s fore hooves freewheeling high into the air above him—and saw them charge.
The thunder of its hooves was deafening. Tiger couldn’t move out of the way fast enough. His mind and body just weren’t that quick... but it didn’t matter, because as he awaited the single-horse stampede, the rider and mount vanished... while the sound of its thundering hooves continued on deep into his head.
As Tiger squirmed and wiggled, trying to avoid the phantom stampede of a thousand horses from nowhere, he was also besieged by powerful images of battle and screaming and death. He tried to shut them out, to shout above them... but they only grew louder, more violent. Somehow, he witnessed unspeakable acts of carnage...
And it was all gone, just as quickly as it had arrived.
Once again, he was alone... huddle over his steam vent on an empty New York City street, except for the wind... not the December blizzard... but the screaming, blistering tempest that would now, forever, be a part of him...
4
As usual, Mark Burnett more played with his daughter, Emily, than got her ready for day care in the morning. It didn’t help that it was late morning after having spent an extra-late night at work yesterday. It was just something about being a fifteen-month-old that made changes in diapers and clothes, or getting fed, not a high priority. Daddy was up... that meant play time! So, Mark sat in the middle of the living-room floor, while NNC presented Buster Harris, in New York City, relating all the news that’s fit to report, as Emily went chasing after a ball he’d tossed. She charged across the room in mock toy-soldier, pseudo-marching fashion, rocking her shoulders up and down, when her attention was suddenly and mercilessly diverted by a Sesame Street noise maker the ball had grazed upon it’s cross-living-room trip. Emily immediately plopped down on the floor and began banging on the toy, composed of Oscar, Elmo, Ernie, and the Cookie Monster. She especially liked the I love trash—and anything dirty or dingy—or dusty! noise she kept making issue from it. Mark watched in amusement, as Buster Harris related a mass murder in some small Florida town, the exact name of which Mark missed. Something Harbor. Propping his arms behind him, he leaned back and half-heartedly watched the news, casting loving, smiling, glances to his daughter. Buster talked about a sleepy retirement community that had been inexplicably decimated yesterday by a horde some labeled as cultist. That only one couple had survived, only to be, in a bizarre twist of Fate, killed this morning—by a man who’d also taken his own life. Police speculated the man had been involved in the previous night’s activities. The report also went on to say that just as inexplicably, only the actual residents of the community had been murdered—all visitors and visiting family had been spared.
Mark shook his head. “What is this world coming to—”
Just then Emily bolted across the floor, in her wobbly way, and bodily dumped into his lap, giggling wildly.
“Oh, you think so?” Mark said, laughing, lifting her off her feet, “you think so?”
Emily continued giggling and Mark slowly rose to his feet, lifting her upside down.
“You think you’re funny, do you? Well, I’ll show you funny!”
Upside down and giggling madly, Emily lazily swung by her suspended feet, her little hands and fingers dangling just above the carpet. She clenched and unclenched her tiny hands toward the floor.
“Jolly Green Giants know what to do with delicious little morsels like you!” Mark roared.
Emily giggled and giggled as Mark tickled her feet, her shins, and down her legs to her arm pits. When he thought she could no longer stand it, he gently lowered her back to the floor.
“Okay, kiddo, time to eat!”
“Eet!” Emily repeated, stretching out on the floor.
“And what do we do before eating?”
“Ans!”
Now it was Mark’s turn to chuckle. “That’s right,” he said, “we wash our hands! Let’s go!”
Emily got to her feet, quickly waddled her short, hurried strides across the living room into the kitchen, and stepped up on the plastic step stool before the sink, “Emily” marked on it in black, permanent marker.
“Good girl!” Mark exclaimed. He reached across the sink and turned on the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot, then directed the faucet over Emily’s outstretched hands, as she already made preparatory washing motions in the air before it. Emily had a big smile on her face and gleefully rubbed her hands together under the water. Mark took the liquid Winnie-the-Pooh soap dispenser from the sink and squirted a drop into her hands.
“We have to wash them good,” Mark said. He made sure her hands were properly washed before turning off the water.
“Now, what do we do?”
Emily stared at Mark, unable to say the word “dry.”
Mark again smiled, “Aw, that’s okay, honey!”
Emily turned around on her “Emily” step, and held out her dripping hands before her over the floor like a soggy sleepwalker. Mark pulled a clean dish towel from the kitchen drawer and draped it over her hands. He began to dry them, when she again called out in protest.
Smiling, Mark let her have control, supervising as she did a fine job in drying her own hands. Emily handed over the damp dish towel.
“Great job!”
Mark scooped her up off her stoop and soared her through the air, over her highchair, by the table.
“Now, we eat!”
“Eet!” Emily mimicked, another huge smile consuming her sweet, chubby little face. “Eet! Eet!”
As Mark buckled her in, Emily again grew fussy. Rather than fight her, he supervised Emily’s searching for the buckles, and, again, backed off to let her buckle herself in. Or try to, anyway. It was then the phone rang, but Mark let the message machine pick it up. It was Rodney, from work. There was a corrupted LAN server. He let him leave a message as he had to help buckle in Emily’s twenty-three-pound body to the highchair.
Mark finished fastening Emily in, who was happily giggling and making “laddle-laddle-laddle” sounds, looking out the kitchen window, and went to the phone to return the call, when it again rang.
“Hello?”
But, this time, there was no answer.
“Is anyone there? Rod? Hello?”
Silence, dead silence. Well, not totally. Emily was still making her “laddle-laddle-laddle” sounds, fine little bubbles forming on her tiny, ruddy lips, while happily banging about on her tray, but Mark heard the faintest sound of breathing over the phone—or, to be more specific, a sudden inhalation of air—masked by the muffled sound of traffic. Then, a strange thing happened. As Mark stood there, empty phone pressed against his ear, he had that distinct feeling only a husband and wife knew. That feeling that the other was there, even though they didn’t speak... or that they were thinking of each other, miles apart. Mark felt a chill sweep through him and looked down to the caller ID box. It wasn’t a number he recognized, but had, instead, the phone company “Verizon” listed. Mark felt his legs go noodley and no sooner had he realized said noodley legs, when he collapsed, reaching out to the counter to break his fall. His heart had jammed itself up into his throat in fine sledgehammer fashion and his mouth went dry and dumb. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He tried to say something, anything, to hang on to this moment—his wife was on the other end, and he knew it.
She’d finally called.
Was she—maybe—finally ready to talk? Work things out? Explain what the hell had happened?
Images of her beautiful, smiling face filled his mind. Of their wedding... bike rides and hikes, and—
“Kacey? Is that you....”
But the phone had already gone dead.
“Kacey? Kacey!”
No response. No sounds of breathing.
Trying to restrain himself, but not doing a very good job of it, he half slid, half slammed the phone along the kitchen’s tiled floor. He sat there, listening to it as it glanced off a leg of a chair and the kitchen table, then spun around into the wall at the opposite end of the room. He watched as the phone did a couple of rebounded, confused spins, then came to a stop, like some angry spin-the-bottle game, its stubby antenna pointing, accusatorily, to Emily. The crunching and hollow plastic cracking sounds didn’t bode well. Then he looked to Emily, now silent and staring at daddy, her mouth open in a tiny “oh,” wide-eyed and confused, unsure of what to do next, hands poised in mid-air. Choosing the lesser of evils, Emily let out a strained wail, cut short—looking to him as if in confirmation to either stop or continue. Then she let out another one, dropping her hands to the tray, her little face suddenly, horribly contorted, flushed a fine bright red.
“Oh, it’s okay, Em, everything’s all right....”
But things were far from okay.
Otherwise, why had his wife—the love of his life—run off a year ago? Go out for her daily run, only to never be heard from again? He’d thought her kidnapped, murdered—something terrible—but never had he thought she’d actually run away on her own—
But was that true—really?
No... he’d seen her frustration after having Emily. He had to admit he’d been quite surprised that she’d even conceded to having a child... she’d always been the wild one, the adventurous one, and had been adamantly opposed to anything that would have tied her down... even getting a house had been a huge deal for her. A new car. She’d wanted nothing that even implied permanence. Stability. Ties. So when she’d found herself pregnant and decided to keep their baby, he was as impressed as could be. Felt his wife was definitely growing. Sure, she hadn’t been happy about the weight gain, but on her well-developed, fit frame she hardly showed her pregnancy, and was, of course, the envy of pregnant women everywhere. She hadn’t gained much weight—not even in her face, her pregnancy had been a breeze.
Labor?
Not even an hour. Out popped their bouncing baby girl, and almost as immediately, off melted the baby weight. In no time, she was the same old Kacey—running marathons, teaching Zumba classes, hefting weights...
Though she had had moments of occasional depression and self doubt.
She attacked all the old sports with a renewed and, yes, scary-crazy recklessness. Rock climbing, skydiving, mountain biking. Bungee jumping. He was seeing a side of her that was troubling, and she just kept brushing him off matter-of-factly about it. Kept needling at him to go with her—but he had new responsibilities, now, they both did, and Emily had to come first, foremost, and all-consuming. Diapers had to be changed, formula made. Early morning feedings and wailing. He had a real job, now. Attention of the most intense and loving kind had to now be directed toward another...
Emily started to cry. Wiping away tears, he sprang back into action.
“Hey, Buckaroo... there’s no need to cry,” he said, still wiping away tears. He lowered his voice in a soothing tone, and a foot crunched down on broken plastic parts that used to be cordless phone as he approached her. “There-there... how about some breakfast, huh?”
Mark checked Emily’s straps and smoothed aside wisps of her light blonde hair. “How about some applesauce? Huh? Does that sound like a plan?”
Emily stopped crying and looked at him. Such all-consuming total focused concentration. Mark took her face into both hands and kissed her. As he looked into her deep, beautiful, watery blue eyes, he wondered what Kacey was doing right this minute.
Was she crying?
Missing them?
Considering a return?
“Well, my love,” he said, “that was your mommy. She’s still having problems, but, I think...,” he began to say, choked off by emotion, “I think... she may be finally willing to work things out. And we’re going to be there for her, aren’t we, my sweet, little, pumpkin, because...” he again choked off, “because... we’re a family, and that’s what families do....”