Harlem Redux

FADE IN:

INT. BEDROOM - NIGHT

The room is dark, except for one silvery ray of moonlight. Wind blows in through the open window.

An AFRICAN AMERICA WOMAN, early 30's, lies on the bed with her hands crossed over her chest, where there is a deep red stain. Beside her is a knife.

Her wrists have been sliced open and blood spurts out onto her breasts, drenching the soft cotton of her nightgown.

Her eyelids begin to droop.

From her perspective, the room revolves like a slow carousel.

Her eyes snap open and search the dark room.

She looks down at her still spurting slashed wrists.

She tries to move her legs but they've become logs - heavy and inert.

The woman presses her elbows to her side and twists her upper torso and rocks back and forth. Her body rolls once, twice and then over the edge.

The bed's high and the fall is hard. She slams to the floor with a thud and lays stunned for a second.

Elbows pressed to her side, she rolls onto her chest, draws up her knees and then pushes herself up. Leaning against the mattress, she's able to stand on shaky feet.

Tired, she sags against the bedpost. She throws her forearms around the carved wooden beam and her limp hands dangle, dripping with red blood.

The darkness in the room intensifies.

There comes the SOUND of a life-and-death struggle. And then a GUNSHOT.

The woman turns her head and looks at a dark corner of the room to see a pair of dead staring eyes.

WOMAN
No. No. I won't let you do this.

The darkness recedes just a bit, as if the moonlight has grown in intensity.

The woman bends over and vomits on herself and the bed.

She presses herself against the bed post as she begins swooning. She straightens up with a moan and wipes the back of her forearm and smears her face with blood.

The sound of a heavy THUMP.

She turns and looks to the bedroom door.

Wind rustles her hair and she turns to the window with a lurch.

WOMAN
Three. Two. One. . . .

She lets go of the bedpost and takes a trembling step toward the window. Another tottering step. And then another.

And the window seems so far away.

Halfway to the window, she trips over the hem of her gown and topples forward. Her head hits the corner of an antique linen chest.

The moonlight grows dimmer.

WOMAN
No. (BEAT) Not now. Please (BEAT) not now.

The woman lifts her head a wobbly inch or two. Her eyelids flutter and her head sags to the floor.

She begins drifting away, too tired to go on.

And then: the WAILING sound of a police siren snaps her back to attention.

She half crawls, half drags, herself across the floor.

What seems like an agonizing eternity passes before she reaches the base of the window, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.

The woman rests, breathes and looks up.

The casement is little more than a yard above her head, but might as well be a mile away.

WOMAN
Get to (BEAT) it. Find the (BEAT) strength.

Curling up, she leans one shoulder against the wall and inches her way up. She holds her breath and struggles.

Finally, she reaches it.

She's up - fully upright - leaning into a blast of cold air.

She smiles in triumph.

She pushes aside a porcelain vase on the window sill, flops down on the narrow ledge and looks out at an empty, small dark street.

Across the way, a light shines on a second-floor window.

WOMAN
Help! Help! Please! Somebody! Anybody! Help Me!

But it's useless, the wind carries her voice up and away.

She pushes herself to hang out the window.

Down the street to her left she sees a MAN walking a Doberman. The man is stooped with age and bundled against the cold, his cap jammed down over his ears.

WOMAN
Hey, mister! Mister, please! Up here! Send help! Please, mister, please!

The man doesn't respond. But the Doberman pauses, perks his ears up and howls into the night.

WOMAN
Please! I don't want to die! I don't want to die!

The dog begins barking hard and loud, belting out agitated yowls that ride the gusts of wind.

The woman grows hopeful.

She watches the dog pull on his leash, straining in her direction.

The Man yanks the dog back, cuffs the canine on the nose and drags it off down the street away from the woman.

WOMAN
No!

Her elbow touches the vase. She turns without thinking and gives it a shove that sends it flipping end over end out the window.

The woman watches it in slow motion; watches as it hits the pavement with an ear shattering crash and explodes into minute pieces.

She looks back to where the Man and Doberman had been standing - they're gone.

The woman's legs give out. She crumbles to the floor, her outstretched arms smearing trails of blood on the wall.

Her head sags once again.

WOMAN
(Weeping)
Oh, God (BEAT) no. Don't let this happen. This (BEAT) can't happen.

Then the woman feels the lightweight, silk curtains as thy billow about her face.

She closes her eyes.

She gives up. Her shoulders slump and hr eyes begin to flutter once again.

Again, her eyes snap open in one last attempt at life.

A groan escapes her lips as she turns her face to the moonlight - but everything grows dim . . . dimmer . . . dimmer.

She slumps dead - a beautiful but bloody corpse gazing blindly at the bleak night sky.

Everything begins to turn dark and -

FADES TO BLACK.

INSERT: "CHAPTER ONE: THE LOST SON RETURNS."

FADE IN:

EXT. MCKAY HOUSE - DAY

The beautiful home is a stately, turn-of-the-century Italianate building on the tree-lined 139th Street. It boasts twelve rooms, casement windows and iron filigreed balconies.

It's set on Harlem's Striver's Row, with its air of manicured exclusivity.

DAVID MCKAY, 35, stands before the front door with a telegram in one hand and a suitcase in the other. Silver hair touches his temples. His skin color is olive and his eyes are dark.

His clothes are of excellent quality, but close inspection would show them to be worn. There are no holes or tatters, hanging threads or missing buttons, but the clothes, like the man, give off an air of fatigue.

There is mute pain in his eyes, sorrow grays his complexion. Tension cuts furrows into his face. He's bone weary.

The door opens to reveal ANNIE WILLIAM, the house maid.

She's a ginger brown, wiry thin woman of surprising strength for someone her size and age. Her eyes are sunken and ringed by circles of grey from recent hard times.

Annie's wizened face lights up at the sight of David. Her hands go to her cheeks and her eyes widen in surprise.

ANNIE
Mr. David? Is it really you?

David gives a barely perceptible nod and a whisper of a smile touches his face.

Placing his suitcase down, he steps forward and wraps his arms about her in a hug.

ANNIE
Thank the good Lord your home!

DAVID
I got the telegram about Lilian.

She steps back, wipes her tearful eyes with her apron and takes a good look at him.

ANNIE
Where you been, Mr. David? We sure did miss you. Coulda used you 'round here.

DAVID
(Glancing away)
Movement business.

ANNIE
We thought you was dead and gone. Nobody seemed t'know nothin'. Them Movement people even offered a reward. 'Magine Miss Lilian knowin' where you was all the time. I ain't faultin' her for not sayin' nothin' - I'm sure she had her reasons, but -

David manages a small smile and looks at her.

DAVID
I asked her to be discreet.

ANNIE
Well then, I guess I can't say nothin' - but is sure woulda lifted a couple of hearts t'know you was all right.

Annie ushers David into the house.

David reaches down for his briefcase and hesitates. He takes and deep breath and steps into -

INT. HOUSE - DAY

Looking about the vestibule, David places the suitcase down and lets Annie take off his coat. She brushes at with a hand and hangs it in the closet.

ANNIE
I was goin' through Miss Lilian's things after the fun'ral. That's when I found your address.

Annie's eyes go over him devotedly and full of love. He walks into her arms and they hold one another again.

ANNIE
Maybe it woulda made a diff'rence. Then again, maybe not. I just know I'm so glad you come back.

She holds him out at arms length and looks him over once again.

ANNIE
C'mon, Mr. David. Let me fix you somethin' t'eat.

David nods, lifts the suitcase and follows her into -

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

The walls are lined with various paintings and flower-bedecked tables.

Walking behind Annie, he notices her slow movements, the way one shoulder seems a tad higher than the other from a slight curvature of the spine and a slightly perceptible limp.

And then his gaze falls on a dark gleaming door.

His breath catches. His shoulders ride up.

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, the hallway seems to twist and lengthens. It takes an eternity to cross the door. Every footfall echoes along with his heat beat.

They pass the door and the hallway snaps back into shape.

He exhales and enters the -

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

It's warm, comforting and familiar.

David eases himself into a chair at the kitchen table and places the suitcase down. He lets his tired eyes drift over the spotless room: up to the clock on the wall, down to the gas stove, the enameled sink and the refrigerator.

Annie moves about the room, singing softly to herself.

David watches as she spoons vegetable soup from a pot into a bowl. She places it on the table before him with a smile and then moves to a drawer. She pulls out a spoon and places it on the table.

David continues watching her in silence.

He watches as she steps into the pantry and retrieves a roll of bread.

David begins to eat as Annie prepares coffee.

Eating, he smiles at Annie as she sits at chair opposite of him. Her eyes dwell on him with affection.

David pushes the bowl aside.

Silence permeates the room, thick and waiting.

DAVID
What happened? What brought Lilian down?

Annie looks down at her hands and intertwines her finger.

ANNIE
I don't know if I can give you the answers you need, Mr. David.

Annie looks up at David with melancholy in her eyes.

ANNIE
I seen a lot in this house and I got my thoughts. But they just the notions of an old woman.

David looks into her eyes.

DAVID
It's me, Annie. Whatever you want to say, however you want to say it, just go ahead.

Annie looks away, out the kitchen window, where she can see a COUPLE walking past pushing a baby carriage. The YOUNG HUSBAND says something and the WIFE lets out a high pitched giggle.

Inside the kitchen, it's quiet.

David hears himself breath and waits, looking at Annie.

Her eyes swing back to his, giving him a "you sure you really want to know?" look.

DAVID
I need to know.

Her roughened hands tremble.

ANNIE
Well (BEAT) a lot's done happened since you been gone. An awful lot.

DAVID
(Whispering)
Go on.

ANNIE
It's hard when I think back on all I seen and heard. . . .

The coffee begins to percolate.

Annie gets to her feet and makes her way to the coffee pot.

ANNIE
Miss Gem come back for a while -

DAVID
Gem is here?

She pours two cups and sits back down at the table. She passes a cup to David.

ANNIE
No, she gone. Been gone. She didn't stay long. Just long enough t'try t'cause trouble.

An expression of disapproval flits across her face.

ANNIE
Anyway, she left again after a few months. And ain't nobody heard nothin' from her since Miss Lilian died.

DAVID
Does she know?

Annie takes a sip from her coffee and looks at David from over the rim of the glass.

She nods.

ANNIE
I sent a tel'gram. She never sent no answer. I don't know what t'make of it. Nobody does.

DAVID
Go on.

ANNIE
Well, that young Miss Rachel - you know she was gone for a while - well, she come back, too.

David attempts to show no reaction at the news, but his eyes widen, showing his surprise at the mention of Rachel's name.

ANNIE
As for Miss Lilian . . . she got ill. Her mind went. Ain't none of the doctors knowed hot t'help her.

Annie places the cup down and folds her hands together.

David watches her, silent and patient, as he reaches for his cup of coffee.

ANNIE
The biggest change, the one I'd better begin with, is how Miss Lilian up and got married.

David jerks at the news and spills some coffee. His eyes widen in surprise. A shiver runs down his spine.

Annie watches this in silence.

ANNIE
I wondered if she'd written and told you. Didn't think she had. She didn't tell nobody.

David places the cup on the table and reaches for a napkin. He wipes the spill.

DAVID
She eloped?

ANNIE
It'll be exactly two years ago next month. She kissed him in March, married him in April.

Annie reaches for the used napkin and looks at it, analyzing the stain.

David watches her, trying to control his breath and the surprise still apparent on his face.

ANNIE
Knowed him for one month. Met him at a fancy-dress dinner them civil rights folks at Black Arrow magazine had.

David loosens his collar and watches as Annie shreds a piece off the napkin.

DAVID
Who was the lucky man?

ANNIE
His name is Sweet. Mr. Jameson Sweet. He's gone on business. He'll be back on Sunday. He works for the Movement too.

A light flickers in David's deep-set eyes. Regret, fear and anxiety can be seen in them. He swallows.

Annie Watches him, her eyes quick with intuitive intelligence.

David notices and catches himself quickly. He regains his composure and clears his throat.

ANNIE
I got your old room waitin' for you. I gave it a good goin' over when I knew you was comin'.

David shakes his head and begins getting to his feet.

DAVID
No. It's better if I stay in a hotel.

Annie places the napkin aside, reaches an old wrinkled hand and grabs him by the wrist with surprising strength. David looks down at her grip and then to her eyes.

ANNIE
This is your home.

David looks away, but lets her grip hold him in place.

DAVID
No, Annie, I've got business in Philadelphia.

Annie's grip tightens and David looks back at her.

ANNIE
You've got business here, too. Fam'ly business.

David attempts to pull his hand away, but Annie's grip is strong.

DAVID
Annie -

ANNIE
Miss Lilian's gone and Miss Gem's 'cross the ocean. You the only one left t'set things straight.

David's eyes narrow.

DAVID
Set what straight?

Annie stops to think.

ANNIE
(Measuring her words)
Mr. David, you and I, we both know . . . well, we both know that things ain't always the way they seem.

Annie looks at him as though that should explain it all.

It doesn't.

DAVID
And?

She grows impatient.

ANNIE
I'll put it as simple as I can. (BEAT) More than one fox got into this chicken coop while you was gone.

Annie releases her grip on David's wrist and watches, pleased, as he sits back down at the table.

ANNIE
Sweet's sittin' pretty in this here house. Real pretty.

David thinks her words over and reaches for the coffee. She watches in silence as he takes a sip.

DAVID
What kind of man is he?

Annie looks at the napkin and tears another piece off. She pushes the shredded pieces aside.

ANNIE
A hard and determined man. And he ain't the shain' kind.

Annie gets up with a slight groan and a sigh. Her hand goes to her lower back and massages the tired muscles.

ANNIE
Miss Lilian never meant for this here house to pass outta the fam'ly. (Beat) You know that.

Annie walks over to David and places a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

He looks up at her.

ANNIE
You can't be willin' t'give up your daddy's house (she snaps her fingers) just like that. You can't be.

He gazes steadily at her, weighing her words.

DAVID
Did he hurt her?

ANNIE
Things, like I said, ain't always the way they seem.

David takes a deep breath and exhales in a long sigh.

DAVID
I'll stay until I can talk to Sweet. Maybe he and I can reach some agreement.

Annie leans forward, her eyes burning.

ANNIE
It's time for you t'take your place. Here. You got a point t'make. Make it now. Later might be too late.

Annie pats David on the shoulder and begins walking out of the kitchen with her slight limp.

David gets to his feet, grabs his suitcase and follows Annie into the hallway.

INT. STAIRWAY - DAY

Annie leads David up the stairs, humming a spiritual as she climbs. She moves slowly, but David is slower, looking at the past around him.

The to reach the top of the landing and move into -

INT. HALLWAY - DAY

There is only silence and depressed darkness to greet them and the soft humming of Annie.

The two reach a door and stop. Annie turns to David with a smile.

ANNIE
It's nice t'have you back, Mr. David.

Annie swings the door open, letting light into the hallway.

ANNIE
I freshened it up for you real nice.

Annie leads David into -

INT. DAVID'S ROOM - DAY

The room is still and silent and untouched by time.

Tense, David watches Annie bustling about, plumping pillows that had already been plumped, smoothing a bedspread that had already been smoothed.

She then glides past him with a warm smile and exits the room, closing the door behind her and leaving David alone in the silence.

He looks about and places the suitcase down by the door.

He walks toward a dresser and touches a pair of navy blue socks resting at its top.

David crosses the room and yanks a closet door open.

It's empty, save for an old black suit and his army uniform.

He strokes the lapels of the army greatcoat and fingers a cuff.

The sounds of war can be heard - gunshots, explosions, screams and yelling.

DAVID
The war over there was nothing - nothing compared to the one over here.

David fingers his medal, still pinned to the front of his jacket.

DAVID
Medals are for heroes. . . .

His eyes move to the black jacket.

AUGUSTUS MCKAY (VO)
You go (COUGH) finish up at Harvard. (COUGH) And always, (COUGH) always protect your sisters, son.

David closes the closet and walks over to the window. He parts the curtains and looks out. He watches a man walking his Doberman.

David stands there thoughtfully for a second and then lets the curtain drop.

He goes to the bedroom door, opens it and steps out into -

EXT. HALLWAY - DAY

He makes a right and walks down the corridor and stops at another door.

He puts his hand on the doorknob and hesitates. He closes his eyes and begins breathing hard. He swallows.

David twists the knob gently and pushes the door open slowly.

Standing at the doorway, he looks at the room where the suicide had taken place.

INT. LILIAN'S BEDROOM - DAY

Combs, brushes and a hand mirror are laid on a dressing table. Hairpins have been neatly aligned on a little mirror tray. Delicate perfume bottles are arranged to one side.

On a night table next to the bed is a bible, closed but with strips of red, yellow and blue ribbons inside to mark pages.

Family photographs with their parents, Lilian and her twin Gem and a picture of a young Lilian holding on to a mutt dog are all artfully arranged atop the chest of drawers opposite the foot of her bed.

The room gives off the lifelessness of a museum.

A sad smile touches David's lips as he takes several steps within.

He lets his eyes drift over the dresser top once more and frowns.

Behind him Annie stands at the doorway, watching David.

DAVID
Why aren't there any pictures of Lilian's (BEAT) husband?

David turns to look at Annie.

ANNIE
Sweet moved out of the room. He took another room.

David nods.

Annie and David walk to the four-poster bed and pause. She looks down and bites her bottom lip.

DAVID
Is this where Lilian did it?

ANNIE
(Nodding)
Sweet had a new mattress brought in.

A shudder runs down Annie's spine and she hugs herself. She looks to the base of the window.

ANNIE
Sometimes I ask the Lord why I had t'be the one t'find her. But I s'pose it was better me than someone who didn't love her.

David turns to Annie.

DAVID
Tell me about it. (BEAT) About how it was when you found her.

Annie sighs and looks about the room, gathering her nerves. She places her hand one of the posters.

ANNIE
She suffered a bad death - a real bad death.

Annie's hand drops from the poster.

ANNIE
They say you shouldn't ever touch nothin', so I left the knife on the bed where it was, but I did close her eyes. And laid a blanket over her.

David's gaze goes to the photos.

ANNIE
Then I called the police. And sat down in the room t'keep that last wait with her. I'da never imagined her goin' like that.

David's gaze falls on the window.

ANNIE
She was such a lovely young woman, so very sweet. Them cops sure took their sweet time comin'. Me, I didn't mind the wait. I didn't like seein' her that way, but I knew it was likely the last time I'd see her at all.

David turns to Annie with sadness in his eyes.

DAVID
The funeral (BEAT) was it nice?

ANNIE
(Smiling)
Oh, yeah. It was somethin' to see. And so many people showed up. They had t'close the doors t'Saint Philip's t'keep the peace. But that was t'be expected. Seein' as how your family is so known and all.

FADES TO BLACK.

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Harlem Redux COMING SOON

Yo! So, I'm going to be posting my latest work - an adaption of a kick ass novel. I've been wanting to do this since first reading it about 2 years ago. I have the prologue and chapter one complete. A quick edit and I'll post it on here.

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A Poem About A Girl

When the night is at its peak -
she sneaks,
tip toes out of the room, to the closet.

She does not put them on display.
No,
she keeps them,
hidden away in a trunk.

Rapid breaths,
a shiver
a sigh as the locks unsnap.

She lifts the lid of her trunk.

Her first spelling bee certificate,
a dried and bloody band aid He had used,
a cracked pink plastic ring with a butterfly,
her first perfect report card,
a single dress-up shoe,
tarnished gold earrings,
her first lipstick - cherry red,
a napkin - red with pasta sauce, crumbled - that Father used before dying (she was 15).

She digs deeper -

A cap from her first bottled beer,
a wad of gum, wrapped in cellophane, from when He first kissed her,
a joint clip from her first day of cutting school.

She goes further -

A pill bottle Mother used during her battle with cancer,
a condom - crusted hard and shriveled - when she lost her virginity,
a pair of underwear from when she had her first abortion (she was 17).

She pushes aside -

Mother's death certificate, crumbled and folded four times (she was 18),
a GED certificate,
a faded pink flower petal - dried and fragile.

She sits cross-legged, rummaging and reliving.
inhaling, smiling, shuddering, gasping and exhaling in the darkness,
with only the faint light of the moon.

1 Comment

Bastard

Father, Father
You didn't say a word
Just gave a wink and walked away,
Didn't even close the door.

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Terminal

I lie awake in bed and try to ignore the feeling in my gut. You know, like when you get pulled over by the cops and you know you reek of liquor. That's the way I feel right now.

Something is wrong, I think. But there shouldn't be. Everything is fine.

But that's wrong.

Not everything is fine.

I try to think happy thoughts. I try and think of that girl I like in class, the way her eyes are shaped, the way her body is shaped.

But it doesn't work.

Clouds begin to accumulate, darkening my fantasy, and the girl's face begins to turn pale, sickly. The hair on her head begins to fall, first one by one, then in clumps.

Everything is fine, I think to myself again.

Then my cell phone rings.

I groan and feel the hammer drop and slam in my gut.

I sit up in bed and the room begins to spin. I shouldn't have drank today.

The cell phone continues and I want to vomit.

Don't pick up that phone! Leave it! Because if you don't hear it, then it can't be true!

But I know I have to.

I get out of bed and sway from side to side.

Stumbling, I make my way into the living room and lift my cell phone from the dinning table. I press the little green button with a trembling finger and bring it to my ear.

"Hello?" I hear myself asking.

"Elijah." It's my mother and her voice sounds on the verge of breaking, like a levy trying to hold back the flood waters.

I know what's wrong. There are no ifs, ands or buts.

I know.

And then I feel the liquor rise up in my stomach.

"You still there?" she asks with her tiny and breaking voice.

"Yeah," I say. "What's wrong?"

I hear her sigh, "It's about . . . your sister."

She can't even say her name.

"She . . . passed on."

And I find myself at a loss for words. My eyes blink. My mouth opens and closes and I feel the liquor bubbling to a boil.

I think I'm going to vomit.

"Elijah?"

I nod. "Yeah. I'm . . . here."

But that's a lie. I'm not here. I'm a million miles away. I'm in the past, thinking about Emily, my little Italian princess, lying in her hospital bed, looking like death and wearing a bandanna to cover her bald head. She's smiling at me and all I can focus on are the bags under her bright eyes.

"When did she die?"

I hear my mother gasping for air, trying to sound strong, trying to ignore the fact that her little girl is dead.

Dead.

My God. My little princess. . . .

She was eaten alive from within.

"About . . . half an hour ago," she replies. "I just wanted you to know," she says and pauses. "Look, I have to go. Your father needs me right now. I'll talk to you later, baby."

She hangs up without waiting for a reply. I pull the phone away and look at the screen. I feel my heart thump against my chest and I want to fall to my knees and scream and punch the floor.

But I don't.

"Always project a positive attitude," I hear my mother say inside my head. And so I close my eyes, clench my fist and tighten my jaw. I push the feeling down, down into that deep darkness where I hide all my fears and insecurities and doubts.

I have to go home.

Suddenly, I'm a drunken blur, running through the apartment trying to find my duffel bag and clothes and wallet and toothbrush and toothpaste and keys and cell phone.

As I head for the front door, I hear a little whine and look down. Zoe, my dog, looks up at me and cocks her head to the side. I slap my forehead and curse myself.

How could I have forgotten about you?

Five minutes later, duffel bag slung over my shoulder and leash in hand, I lock my apartment door and realize I haven't showered yet.

***

I blink my eyes and find myself sitting in the back of the cab with the window rolled down. Morning is a long way away. Zoe is curled up on my lap, sleeping. The driver stares at the road, silent as a corpse.

Corpse, I think and shudder.

"Can I smoke in here, bud?" I ask.

I see his eyes flash to me in the mirror and he says, "Yeah."

I reach into my jacket pocket and fish a cigarette out of the pack and bring it to my lips. Looking out the window, I watch the scenery go by. A dark field canopied by a sky filled with stars. The wind rushes through my hair and roars in my ears.

Emily Ray Ann.

God, how could you create something so beautiful and then destroy it? How can you live with yourself? You're a monster!

I flick, flick, flick the lighter and then an orange flame dances. I bring the cigarette to it and puff.

I prayed to God to give Emily a cure, a miracle. A shiver runs down my spine and I find myself clenching my jaw as my hand begins to tremble. I want to weep. I don't want to project a positive attitude. I want the world to know what I'm feeling. I want to know what I'm feeling.

God, I want my little sister back!

I sob and catch myself before another blurts out. I look to the mirror. The driver continues looking straight ahead, oblivious to the torment going on in the back of his car. I bite my lower lip and try to blink the tears out of my eyes.

Push the feelings down, I tell myself. Push. Push! PUSH!

I gasp for air, realizing I've been holding my breath. I take a long pull and hold the smoke deep within my lungs. And then I exhale.

"What's your story?" the driver asks.

I blink my eyes and look to the mirror. His eyes flash on me for a second and then go back to the road ahead. "What?" I ask, trying to stall for time. I look out the window, at stars that are frozen in place.

"Well, it doesn't take a genius to realize you're going through something."

I look down at Zoe and run my left hand over her soft coat. "Nothing," I hear myself say and smile.

Everything is perfect. Everything is fine. I'm the happy little center of the universe.

"Always project a positive attitude," I hear my mother say inside my head.

I chuckle and it sounds false to my ears. I try not to think of the words corpse or dead. I try not to think of my little sister.
I try to think of that girl from class and I smile again just in case he's looking at me.

"Yeah. Sure," he says.

And then silence follows and I can feel my pulse quicken, my stomach churning, my heart thumping against my chest and the silence seems so eternal and I want to scream and I want to cry.

Zoe shifts on my lap and looks up at me briefly before lowering her head, snorting and then falling silent.

"Let it out, my man, or you'll give yourself an ulcer . . . or a nervous breakdown," he says.

I chuckle again and shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, I feel claustrophobic. This car feels far too small for me and it's shrinking and I'm growing and I'm filled with this feeling I can't catalog.

***

I blink my eyes and realize I'm standing before the ticket counter, looking at nothing in particular. The female clerk is starring at me, her head tilted to the side. She blinks her eyes. "Sir?" she asks.

I snap back to reality and smile. "What?"

"We have one flight to La Guardia," she says.

"I'll take it."

She shakes her head and says, "I don't think this is what you're looking for."

"Why?"

"Well," she says and begins to tap, tap, tap on the keyboard, "That flight has two layovers. One at Seattle and then another at Atlanta. And that plane leaves in about thirty minutes. You won't arrive at La Guardia until nine thirty six tomorrow morning, Eastern Standard time."

I shake my head and let out a sigh. I need a drink and a smoke. I need to go back in time. I need to walk right up to God - finger pointing in accusation - and curse him out.

"I'll take it."

"Okay," she says and looks back down at the screen and begins to type again. "Will you be bringing the dog in the cabin with you?"

I look down at Zoe and say, "Yeah."

She nods her head again and continues to type. "Okay, that's going to be an extra hundred dollars, sir. Do you have a carrier for her?"

Fuck, I think and shake my head.

Her eyes linger on me and she smiles. "I'm sorry, sir, but you're going to need a carrier. You can purchase one from us for forty five dollars, but you'll have to pick it up at the baggage office before going through security screening."

I try to smile and nod.

She smiles and says, "Okay. One way ticket with two layovers to La Guardia, a pet and a carrier comes out to . . . four eighty and sixty cents, sir."

I reach into my back pocket and bring my wallet out and hand my credit card over. She slides it and waits for the transaction to process. . . .

"Are you okay? You look a million miles away."

A weak grin comes to my face and I look down at Zoe. "I'm fine," I say. "Just tired. And I have a long night ahead of me."

***

The plane is experiencing turbulence somewhere over Utah or Nevada when my eyes snap open. A woman yelps. I look down at Zoe and see her looking up at me. I press my right hand to her side and pull her to my chest.

I'm going to die. This plane is going to burst apart. The engines are going to fail, the wings are going to crumble and this plane will begin to fall.

My stomach is doing somersaults and I lean my head back and close my eyes.

The plane tremors violently and jerks to the side. I feel the liquor sloshing around in my gut and I know I'm going to vomit. I taste the bile rising in my throat and try to force it back down.

And then everything is fine.

The plane settles on a smooth course and the liquor in my stomach relaxes. I exhale. I need a cigarette, a joint, a shot of whiskey and a pint of Guinness. My eyes open and I see the stewardess walking up the aisle. She stops at my row and smiles weakly.

"Can I get you anything?" she asks as she leans forward.

"Whiskey. Guinness. Now. Please," I blurt.

A genuine smile comes to her face and she says, "That's going to be ten dollars, sir."

***

I blink my eyes and look down at my watch. It reads: 9:30pm.

I'm on my way to Atlanta now and my itinerary tells me that I won't arrive there until 5:41 am. Which would make it . . . what in Mountain Standard Time?

I'm lost. I'm confused. I think I know what a pinball feels like.

And I'm starting to regret paying so much money just to get disorientated and I'm thinking about my dead little sister and I want to cry because everything is spinning out of control and by time I get home I would have flown all over the United States and not have gained a damn thing and my sister will still be dead and all I want to do is break down and cry because I'm not strong enough to cope with this!

***

I blink my eyes and realize the plane is landing in Atlanta. There's a roar and a bounce and I'm pushed back into the seat.
I exhale and lick my lips.

I think I've been blacking out - or blanking out. I can't tell, and then, is there really a difference?

Every time I open my eyes, I'm somewhere else and wish I could come to as someone else. But that's not possible, is it?

I look down at my watch and see that it stopped at 11:11.

I look down and realize that Zoe isn't on my lap.

The plane slows on the tarmac and I wonder if I left her at Seattle.

"Zoe, heel!"

Nothing. Not the normal jingling of her collar as she runs.

I begin to panic and I really, really believe that I'm finally going to snap. My temples begin to throb and I can feel the blood pulse through my veins. My tongue feels like sandpaper on the roof of my mouth and I taste acid.

My lower lip is trembling and I feel the mucus in my nose begin to run down my nostrils. I sniff and blink, blink, blink the tears trying to well up in my eyes.

"Zoe, heel!"

Nothing.

Oh. My. God! What have I done? How could I be so stupid?

I'm sweating now and can feel the beads roll down my forehead, can feel then dripping onto my waist from my underarms, can feel them gathering on the back of my neck.

My shoulders slump and I feel defeated. I lean my head back against the seat and groan. I'm done. I'm so done and I just want to stay in this plane and let it take me to oblivion; let it fly into the sun like Icarus.

I feel something twitch inside my head. Does that make sense? I feel it twitch like a toe during a dream and a smile comes to my face and a chuckle escapes my lips.

"Heel, Zoe!"

It never takes three times for her to respond.

***

I blink my eyes and realize a stewardess is shaking me awake.

I blanked out again.

"Sir," she says, sounding a little agitated.

I look at her, not understanding what's happening.

"We're in Atlanta, sir. We need you to exit the plane now."

I look around and find that Zoe is still missing.

"My dog. She's gone."

The stewardess smiles and looks up the aisle. "She's made friends with the rest of the crew. Don't worry, she's fine. We fed her and gave her some water." She looks back to me and says, "She heard you calling but we couldn't let her run to you during landing. You understand. She could have gotten hurt. You should have kept her in the carrier."

I blink my eyes and feel the weight of a planet roll off my shoulders and shatter.

I exhale.

"Are you okay? You don't look well."

I nod "Yeah. Just a shock to the system."

She smiles. "Thought you left her back at Seattle, huh? Well, you didn't. At least that much is right in the world."

***

I'm outside of the airport in Atlanta and smoking a cigarette. I have about an hour and a half before I need to get back on the plane and head for New York. So I know I'll be smoking a dozen more before I get back on.

Zoe is doing her business in the grass next to me.

The sky is still dark, but I think I see a splash of color in the distance to the east.

I look up at a digital clock and the bright red numbers tells me its 6:30 in the morning. I wonder what time it is in Colorado. What time is it in New York?

I take another long pull and hold it in.

I know that I'll be home in several hours and that I'm really going to have to face the facts.

My father will be sitting in his recliner, leaning forward, broken, breathing hard and trying not to cry.

My sister will be standing off to the side, smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall like she wants to burn two little holes into it.

My mother will be drinking a glass of wine from a half empty bottle, looking at her tired hands and sighing.

And then I'll walk in, and they'll seem happy for a second - just a second. And then the reality of the situation and my arrival will set in like a fog and they'll all withdraw.

I exhale and look to the distant light in the eastern sky. It reminds me of a fire in the night. I look up and don't see any constellations.

***

I'm starring at a wall of monitors that show arrivals, departures and gate numbers.

There are people standing around me, starring at the screens and not blinking.

They all look helpless and confused and I can't help but think of cows going to slaughter.

I move away and walk through the terminal.

I feel false. I feel like I am but shouldn't be.

I should be dead, not Emily.

And a girl passes me and our eyes meet for one second. She smiles. I do nothing but walk and look at her with a dead expression. The connection breaks and I continue walking.

***

I wake up with a start and realize I'm in a yellow cab that smells of stale cigarette smoke and incense. I don't remember the flight from Atlanta and think I may need to go see a doctor.

Zoe's sitting on my lap, panting, looking at the New York cityscape. The traffic is dense and the sky is gray. I think I can almost smell the exhaust fumes through the rolled up window.

It's cold. I know that by just looking out.

I'm home.

I exhale and lean my head back, letting my mind wonder, knowing that in less than an hour I'll see my family.

There's a strange feeling in my stomach and I don't know how to describe it. Anticipation? Dread? A dawning horror? Some people may say I have butterflies in my stomach. I think I have vampire bats.

I feel like gagging. That always happens to me when I think the shit is going to hit the fan. But, there are no more surprises.

Emily is dead. There's no changing that. And what could possibly be worse? No, the shit has hit the fan and splattered all along the walls and floor and ceiling. What is it I'm feeling then?

A horn blast brings me back to reality and I can hear the driver cursing through the Plexiglas window that separates us.

A genuine smile comes to my face for the first time in what feels like forever.

I hear a chuckle escape my lips and really know I'm home.

Finally.

My stomach grumbles and I'm surprised. I didn't think I'd be feeling hungry, or if I did, it would be followed immediately by sense of nausea.

I think I can go for some Chinese food, or pizza from Maria's.

This makes me smile, but then I remember why I'm here. And that realization makes me feel guilty.

My chin drops to my chest and I close my eyes.

I feel Zoe's tongue against my cheek and her wet nose trailing over my face like a slug.
It makes me think of how Zoe used to do the same to Emily.

She would laugh. Sometimes, I thought she would burst. And Zoe loved it. Her little finger tail would wag so fast it was just a blur.

***
I'm standing before the front door and my fist is posed, ready to knock.

I don't think I can do this.

I don't think I'm ready.

I know I'm going to walk in there and breakdown. I know I'm going to wail and curse and cry. I know that I'm not going to be strong enough.

Push it down.

And I want to let go. I'm so tired of hiding it. I'm so fucking tired.

Push it down!

I feel my chest heaving and the water building up in my eyes.

PUSH IT THE FUCK DOWN! Be a man! Be fucking strong!

And I knock three times.

A few silent seconds pass and I think I'm one second away from crying.

The door opens and I see my mother.

She looks tired and withered. I swear she's aged about ten years. Her eyes are red and something tells me she just wiped her face dry.

I bite my lower lip and feel it trembling.

We stare at each other, not needing to share a single word.

We're family.

And I feel a tear roll down my cheek and know that I can't stop it.

I won't stop it.

I don't need to project a positive attitude.

Not here.

Not now.

I'm home.

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