Dwellers of the Night: The Complete Collection (2 page)

“You’re safe. I promise. I’ve lived here for five years.”

“Why can’t we move to Upper Price Hill? It’s better there.”

“Kira. We’re fine. We have five locks on the doors.”

“Maybe we could even move to Aspen. You know, in Colorado?”

“Yes, I know Aspen. And only rich people live there. Keep dreaming, Sweetie.”

“We should live in the country. In Kentucky.”

“Kira…”

“It’d be a shorter drive for you to get to work.”

“Yes, but you already drive an hour to Dayton everyday. You don’t need to drive an hour and a half.”

The purple Escort makes its way down Glenway Avenue and over the bridge that spans the railroad stations of Cincinnati, passes the old railway station that had been turned into a museum, and descends into the heart of downtown Cincinnati. The city itself is beautiful: set against the Ohio River, sporting several bridges, and home to famous stadiums: the Paul Brown Stadium and the Great American Ball Park. One magazine rated Cincinnati as “the best city to live in.” Two new museums have just recently opened: the Rosenthal Center for Contemporary Art and the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center. As the Escort weaves through the city, between buildings, the Newport and Covington skylines can be seen on the opposite banks of the river. They pass what would be called The Banks: a 24-hour urban neighborhood of restaurants, clubs, offices, and homes with sweeping skyline views, right along the city’s riverfront.

Kira points to the construction equipment beside The Banks and says, “We’re going to live there one day, okay?”

He smiles. “Of course we will. Once you stop spending all your money.”

She pouts, “How much did the tickets cost again?”

“Sixty dollars each. For the cheapest seats.” Kiddingly, “If you want to live in The Banks, Kira, we can’t be spending like this.”

With a smirk, “Who bought the tickets? You did. Oh, okay.”

Anthony Barnhart

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“Here it is,” he says, pulling into the parking lot of the Procter and Gamble Hall at Aronoff Center, named after one of Cincinnati’s major soap manufacturers, the business that started marketing Ivory Soap.

He parks the car and turns off the engine, opens his door, steps into the gentle rain. “What are we seeing again?” he asks as he locks the door, joining her on the other side, casting above him the burgundy umbrella.

“Camelot,” she says; and looking over him in his suit, “You look like a dashing prince!”

Sweetly, “And you are my mesmerizing princess.” He thinks as much, too, as he devilishly eyes her slender curves and shape in the sparkling blue LA FEMME ball gown.

“Oh, you’re too much,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “Do you have the tickets?”

“They’re in my wallet.”

He takes her hand, and they walk towards the theater.

Rain falls. Lightning flashes. Thunder rumbles in the distance.

He steps out of the theater entrance, and standing under the overhang, he withdraws a MARLBORO

and lights the match. He breathes in the smoke in deep breaths, watching cars drive by on the street as the rain continues to fall. Mist wraps around his ankles, caressing the sleeves of his pants. He stands beside a marble pillar and leans against it on one elbow, and holding the cigarette between twin fingers in one hand, he reaches into the pocket of his suit jacket and withdraws a purple satin box. He flips it open and admires the ring inside. He had purchased it online at My Solitaire, and it had cost him a fortune. The three-karat asscher-cut diamond sparkles as his brown eyes dance over its form. He hears footsteps coming towards him and quickly shuts the box and slides it into his pocket.

“What are you doing out here?” she asks, standing beside him. A shiver: “It’s cold.”

“Just thinking,” he replies. “I’m not much of a theater person.”

“I know,” she says. “But you did it for me. And I think that’s wonderful.”

He smiles. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“What? Of
course
I know that. And
you
know
I
love
you
.” Then, taking his hand in hers, “Now come inside. You’re going to catch a cold, and you have a flight early in the morning.”

Raindrops rap like delicate fingers upon the large window of the upper-story bedroom; lightning flickers, casting pure white into the room, illuminating the bed, figures moving atop of one another beneath scattered sheets twisting around their ankles. He moves slowly and steadily on top of her, tender not rough, and their lips glide against one another. Her hair falls across her bare shoulders as he kisses her neck. She grips his shoulder-blades between shaking fingers, and her back arches as he gently caresses her.

She clings to him tightly, breathes, “You’re so amazing…”

“I love you so much,” he says, kissing her cheek. “I’m going to marry you.”

She gasps in pleasure, then, “That would be… wonderful.”

“I think so, too.”

They continue to kiss as the rain steadily falls.

Anthony Barnhart

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II

The sun has just begun to rise as the alarm clock goes off. At first he ignores it, the incessant ringing echoing in his dreams. It is a sweet dream, and one that he does not wish to leave: he is standing on a white-sand beach with his mistress, and they are holding one another close. The moon eclipses the sun, and the beach is clothed in darkness. Stars twinkled in the sky, and pale crabs scurry at their feet. Yet the alarm beckons him, and he awakes, rubbing his eyes. Soft dawn sunlight comes in through the shades, and he is glad not to hear any rain. He lumbers out of bed and stumbles out onto the balcony, opening the sliding glass door quietly so as not to wake her. He has taken a cigarette from off his dresser, and he lights the match as he looks out at the awakening city of Cincinnati. The storm clouds are breaking, ribbons of sun cascading down, glinting off the skyscrapers. Traffic clogs the multiple interstates—I-471 and I-75 crossing the Ohio River, I-75 stretching north, and OH-50 running along the Ohio shore of the river. He gets a slight buzz as he looks up at the sky, and in the growing light, he sees a shooting star twinkling far overhead. He smiles to himself—
good luck!
—and tosses the cigarette.

He reenters the bedroom. Kira is wrapped up in the sheets, her head buried in the pillow. He walks over to his dresser and opens the top drawer, pulling out the sacred satin flip-top box. He flips it open and looks down at the ring once more.
This is our future
, he thinks.
This is our dreams coming
true.
And then,
A miracle
. He never believed it would happen; logically, he knew it would. But he had been through so many broken relationships and experienced so many shattered dreams that the idea of his greatest dream coming true—sharing in romance, laughter, and love—was downright laughable.
But now it’s coming true. Now it’s a reality
. He smiles and closes the box, setting it on his dresser. He glances back at Kira, making sure she isn’t looking. It’s a surprise, and he’ll propose tomorrow after he returns from his flight. He has it all planned out: they’ll go to the overlook at Eden Park, and there he’ll fall on one knee beside the duck pond, and she’ll be overwhelmed with joy. Their first date had taken place at that duck pond, when they were both in college. The irony is what drives his plan.

He walks around the side of the bed and looks down at Kira.
She’s so beautiful.
He can’t help but realize how lucky he really is. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek. “I love you,” he says. She stirs slightly, but doesn’t awake. “I love you,” he repeats. A faint smile appears on her lips, and her eyes flutter. He kisses her on the eyelids and glances over at the mounted clock. He has to get ready or he’ll miss his flight. “I love you,” he says again. This time she doesn’t respond. “Sleep well, Kira.”

That is the last time he will ever talk to her.

He drives his olive green Jeep Cherokee to I-75 South and crosses the bridge spanning the Ohio River. It’s packed with cars, rush hour pressing around him. He raps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, thankful that his exist is just across the river. He pulls off at Exit 185 and follows the I-275

circle freeway west to Exit 4, State Route 212. He doesn’t read the airport direction signs as he enters Erlanger Kentucky. Through the broken trees along the road, he can hear through his rolled-up window the roar of twin jet engines as an airliner takes off. He turns onto the road leading to the airport. The trees disintegrate, and he can see the three-level Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport looming before him. He parks in the Employee Parking Lot, locks the Jeep, latches the keys to his belt, straightens his uniform, grabs his briefcase, and half-walks, half-runs through the revolving glass doors into the airport interior.

The baggage claim is near abandoned, with a few poor lost souls mingling around, tired and exhausted, checking their watches, grumbling, waiting on their baggage. A little girl tries to climb Anthony Barnhart

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onto the revolving platforms used to carry luggage, and her mother scolds her and tells her to get down. She giggles, and her father—seeing the man approaching, donned in his pilot’s uniform—

quickly moves forward, scoops up his daughter, and ducks away. His face blushes as he looks over to the pilot, who can only smile at the child’s innocence. He wishes such playful curiosity were contagious. He’d outgrown it ages ago. He passes the baggage claim and takes the escalator up to the security checkpoint. He steps through the scanners and is clear. His briefcase is checked. One of the security officers starts a bit of small talk, but the man must excuse himself—”I’m running late. I can’t miss my flight.” A trickle of joking can be detected in his voice. The security guard nods, and the man continues on his way, taking another escalator to Terminal 3. He passes Bridgeworks Deli and a line of vending machines. He ducks into the bathroom, takes a quick leak, and scurries over to the Starbucks. He orders a coffee in his personal mug. As he hands the barista her money, he glances over at the 24-Hour Flower shop and considers getting something for Kira. She loves purple flowers. He knows he doesn’t have time—
I’ll get it when I get back
—and, holding his coffee in one hand and briefcase in the other, he jogs over to his gate.

The attendant smiles, shakes her head. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“I had to get my coffee,” he says, raising the mug.

“God forbid you fly without it.”

“Thanks for the concern, Jenny.” He rushes past her, down the connecting gate, and steps into the plane.

The plane is a Boeing 777-300ER, belonging to Air France. Air France boasts of 182 destinations in 98

countries, 1700 daily flights, 383 aircraft, and 71,600 employees. The 777 a wide-bodied commercial airliner, sporting six wheels for its landing gear, a circular fuselage cross-section, a pronounced aft neck for the cockpit, and a blade-like tail cone. Its cabin width is 20 feet, and it has a 43,100 maximum foot service ceiling. It’s powered by twin GE90-115B engines, each pushing 115,000 pounds-per-foot of thrust. It can carry up to 365 passengers—a combination of 1st-class, 2nd-class, and 3rd-class—but this morning there are only 152 passengers onboard. He nods to the lovely flight attendant and ducks into the cockpit.

Richard is already sitting in the copilot’s seat, going over the pre-flight checklist. He looks up as the man locks down his briefcase and sets his coffee inside a custom-made holster. Richard shakes his head. “I thought I was going to have to fly this plane by myself this morning. Long night?”

“My alarm didn’t go off,” he lies, sitting down. “How are we doing?”

“Everything’s reading all right. We’re good to go.”

The glass cockpit is already lit up with the Honeywell LCD display. The fiber optic avionics network is pulsing information to the glowing blue screens. “How tired are you?” the man asks. Richard shrugs. “I’m fine. I don’t need coffee.”

“Let’s put it on fly-by-wire today, shall we?”

“Autopilot’s fine with me. I’ve been wanting to finish my John Grisham novel.”

“Which one is it?”

“The Testament. It’s about a missionary in the jungle.”

“Doesn’t sound like Grisham.”

“Well, it involves wills and testaments and stuff like that.”

The pilot reaches into his uniform pocket, pulls out the satin box. “Take a look.”

Richard leans over. “You got it?”

“Yep.”

“Three month’s salary?”

Anthony Barnhart

Dwellers of the Night

18

“Hell no. I went all-out on this one. Check it out. Don’t drop it.”

Richard takes the satin box, opens it up. His eyes dazzle. “Shit, Man. Shit.”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Had I bought Emily one of these, maybe she wouldn’t have divorced me.”

“You didn’t buy her an engagement ring?”

“Not one this nice. I got it off E-Bay.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, well, in hindsight, it’s a good thing I didn’t spend thousands on it.”

“How much did it cost?”

Richard wickedly grinned. “Forty-nine dollars.”

The man laughs. “You deserve to be divorced.”

“Are you still going to take her to that park? What’s it called?”

“Eden Park. I’ll take her tomorrow.”

“You say they have a duck pond?”

“Yeah. With a bridge and everything. Right by an overlook of Kentucky.”

“I’ll bet Clara would like it. She wants to take the dog out more.”

“I recommend it. I’ll get you directions. Your little girl will enjoy it.”

The flight attendant appears behind them. “We’re ready to begin.”

“All right,” the man says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Richard coos, “I hear the Atlantic is pretty at dawn.”

It’s 4:00 EST by the time they reach the airport in Germany, drained from the 8-hour flight. Richard had been wrong: the Atlantic wasn’t pretty, it was dull; stretching blue water for as far as the human eye can see, for hours at a time, is enough to make anyone bored senseless; and the fact that they have made this identical flight so many times doesn’t help. Once at the airport, the passengers disembark. The man’s stomach is growling. He leaves the copilot with the plane—”You want anything?” “No, I brought a sack lunch.”—and he finds a German grill just down the terminal. He stands in line, continually looking at his watch: he only has thirty minutes before the flight back to the States. He looks up at a mounted television and follows along. The broadcast is in German, but he is required to know the language for his flight plans. He follows the news of a meteorite strike somewhere in Russia. A few stories later, the beautiful woman on the screen is talking about power outages sweeping along Russian territory; and power outages are beginning to be experienced in Northern China and segments of Old Russia. He thinks nothing of it as he orders a deli sandwich, quickly eats, uses the restroom, and rushes back the plane.