Worlds Apart (7 page)
Kurt opened his eyes and carefully took several deep breaths. He was
awake
now,
awake!
He glanced over at Elyse, but she was snoring lightly; whatever thrashing he might have done must have been on his side of the bed only.
What a vivid one that had been! Another nightmare, of course, and Kurt wondered if maybe he
was
spending just a little too much time in the basement. He’d been in a uniform of some sort, as always, and there were terrible things going on all around him, but then it seemed as if he was nonchalantly wandering around while all of it was happening, and then after that he was having incredible sex, but not with Elyse. And now that he was trying to recall those details it was all starting to go fuzzy already.
Damn! Kurt grinned to himself. It figured that the remnants of his dream would start to slip away when he was trying to extract the only good part.
He rose, and padded to the bathroom. He was going to shave first today, unlike yesterday, when midway through lunch he realized that he’d never completed his morning ritual. “It’s fine, you’re retired anyway!” Elyse had said as she’d set his meal before him, but no, it
wasn’t
fine at all. First it would be one morning forgotten, then two, then a week out of a month, and he’d end up one of those geriatric fools wandering the park feeding breadcrumbs to the birds.
Never! Never! He’d rather die!
Kurt posed for his mirror image: still handsome at 65, still reasonably wiry, with only partial gray streaking through his dark black hair. He cocked his head, chin up,
a
proud expression on his stern face.
Not bad at all for an older guy. He could still control a classroom, no problem!
Kurt looked down and found the tube of shaving cream. He wet the brush, prepared the cream, and began to lather up.
*
*
*
*~
The doorbell rang around two o’clock. Elyse was out; Kurt put the magazine he was reading on the seat of his armchair and moved toward the front door.
“Sonya!”
No “Papa,” no greeting at all. Sonya was a mess, eye makeup smeared down her cheeks, shivering, mouth hanging open with what looked like spittle or snot clotted on both lips.
“Where’s your coat? You can’t be out here like this!” Kurt admonished, and he reached forward to pull her inside the house. She complied limply, like a cloth doll.
“Sonya! What’s wrong?” Kurt asked as he closed the front door. “Sonya!”
He drew her to him, enfolding her in his arms to warm her, and he could feel the coolness of her skin through the thin blouse she was wearing. “My God, you’re freezing!”
Sonya started to sob, tremendous racking sobs that shook Kurt’s body as well as hers. He feared the worst and held her even
tighter,
almost to prevent her from vocalizing what he already knew must have happened.
“Sonya, Sonya,” he murmured.
She drew a shuddering breath and then released it in several violent huffs.
“Sonya,
it’s
Reginald, isn’t it?”
And then she screamed. Kurt grimaced as her fingers dug into his sides, as they pinched and strangled the waistline he’d been admiring just a few hours before. She screamed again, and again.
“Sonya,” he said, trying to hold her still. Sonya!” he exhorted as she started to hit him.
A burst of anger flared, and Kurt grabbed her hands and gripped them firmly; he efficiently transferred both of her hands to one of his own, and then clasped her waist with his free hand. In a few seconds, he had her sitting on a couch, hands still secured but with the surreal appearance of normalcy: a father and a distraught daughter, sitting side by side on the living room sofa.
“Tell me!” Kurt instructed. “What did he do?”
Sonya’s answer was to scream once more, an intense, blaring shriek.
Kurt moved quickly, almost as if to slap her, but his arm immediately slowed and he merely brushed Sonya’s hair off her ruined face.
She breathed in, then out, then took several brisk inhalations.
“He.
KILLED.
Himself,” she said, each syllable articulated with meticulous care.
“How?”
Kurt asked simply.
Sonya’s eyes darted to his.
“He.
THREW
himself
. Off.
Our.
Building.”
Her lips drew back, exposing her teeth. Kurt retained his grip on her; she looked practically feral. “NOT.
The future.
I wished.
It to be, Papa.”
Kurt drew a sharp inhalation himself. His words, so calming and inspiring just a day earlier, appeared so blind and useless today.
“I’m sorry,” Kurt breathed out.
“So, so sorry, my sweet.
My sweet Sonya.”
He released her hands, and once again pulled her into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, my dear.”
And Sonya’s body went flaccid as she began to cry again, as she leaned into her father and shed a stream of watery tears onto his neck and shirt. Kurt’s arms rose and he gently soothed her.
The clock on the fireplace mantle was the only sound in the room outside of Sonya’s ragged breaths.
Seconds passed by, then minutes.
Kurt remained silent, continuing to console his daughter with slow, deliberate motions.
And then she pulled gingerly away from him. She wouldn’t look at him, but she let him hold her hand.
“It’s all gone now, Papa,” Sonya said in a placid voice.
“Everything.
What am I supposed to do now?”
Kurt didn’t want to answer that. There
was
no acceptable answer!
“You have me.
Your mother.
Johnnie and Amy,” Kurt said. “We’ll all be there for you.”
Unlike that weak husband of yours!
he
wanted to add, but it didn’t take much effort to squelch his ignoble sentiment.
“We’ll help you get through this,” Kurt finished quietly, resisting the urge to say something similar to what he’d said yesterday. Hopes and wishes weren’t going to cut it with Sonya at the moment.
*
*
*
*~
Elyse had been crying for what seemed like hours.
Loudly, then silently, then barely audibly, then at full volume again.
A cycle that she seemed unable to break as she continuously broke down anew.
Kurt finally turned on his side in the bed and put an arm around her. She didn’t scoot backwards to meet him as she normally would, so he wrapped his entire body around hers, raising his knees and pushing his chest forward so the two of them were almost spoons in a drawer.
“She’ll be fine. It will just take a while,” he said softly into Elyse’s hair.
Elyse shook her head. “No,” she said. “She won’t.”
Kurt closed his eyes; everything was slipping out of his control. After going to the morgue, he had tried to persuade Sonya to let them spend the night in her apartment, but she wouldn’t allow him or Elyse to encroach. He had entreated her to sleep in her old room at home, but she’d refused.
Thankfully sedated and with a neighbor promising to watch her, Sonya had slipped into a fitful slumber, and Kurt had driven Elyse home.
“Reginald
– ”
Kurt said, but Elyse tensed before he could even utter a second word.
“Don’t,” she warned. “Just don’t, Kurt.”
“I only wanted to say
– ”
he managed, but a shake of Elyse’s head cut off his unfinished thought.
And that was it for conversation in the Smith household for the night. Two deaths in a little more than two weeks, and grief for both the baby and his father was beginning to throttle the joy in life Kurt had always felt was the best part
of
his life.
He waited an appropriate ten minutes or so, and then relinquished his hold on Elyse and turned onto his other side. She didn’t move.
It’s my actual life that’s becoming the nightmare, Kurt thought as he adjusted his pillow and settled his limbs.
And then he slept.
It wasn’t the first clank that woke Kurt up. Instantly alert, his senses hyper-attuned to the room and house, he thought it had to be at least the third noise, maybe the fourth. The first few had worked into his dream, cloaking themselves with images that fit the sound. But too many, and his brain had given up and become attentive to the external world.
There.
Again.
Someone had bumped into a table or a shelf.
Shaking crystal, disturbed china, something.
Kurt cautiously leaned to the side and reached under the bed. Exactly where it should be, the old shoebox contained his loaded pistol and an extra cartridge of ammunition. He lifted the box top and gripped the Luger. It didn’t matter how long it had been since he’d needed it; the weapon felt comfortable in his hand, a natural extension of his arm. Kurt sat up.
Elyse’s light snores had stopped. “Kurt? What’s wrong?” she mumbled.
“
Shh
.” Kurt’s feet kissed the floor. Holding the pistol in front of him, he stealthily sidled to the closed bedroom door and reached for the knob.
And the door exploded inward, smashing into his hand. Not uttering even a curse, Kurt stepped backwards, aimed at the center of the dark shape in front of him, and pressed the trigger.
Nothing!
Now
he cursed, wondering if the pistol had jammed somehow in the impact with the door. The shape was hurling itself toward him, and he pressed the trigger once again with no effect before tossing the pistol aside and –
BANG!!
Jesus! Something had slammed into Kurt’s forehead with terrible force.
A club?
A blackjack?
He felt blood dripping down his face, but that had actually sounded like a gun being shot, and both of his ears were ringing, which meant a gun
had
been fired – had the Luger belatedly done its job?
The dark shape was retreating from the bedroom, and Kurt briskly wiped the blood out of his eyes and began to give chase. His head hurt like a son of a bitch and his balance wasn’t perfect – the doorway before him actually seemed to be inside of a kaleidoscope – but he was going to
maim
this guy, he was going to teach him an extremely brutal lesson in whose house
not
to rob!
The intruder had closed most of the distance to the front door by now, but Kurt lowered his head and put some speed into it. A guttural roar filled his head and as well the entire house as he
bared
his teeth and prepared to ram his entire body into the prowler.
His hip knocked into the side table by his armchair; he heard the sound of wood snapping. His left eye suddenly stung as the blood flowing from the wound above it rippled below his eyebrow. Kurt again swiped at his face, but he was losing momentum, and the asshole was about to get away!
The guy had the front door open, and Kurt could see him in the faint moonlight, a swarthy pocked face with small eyes in a puny head. He’d
seen
him before! Where, where? It didn’t matter right now, he just needed to
get
him,
he
needed to bring him
down!
But Kurt had forgotten about the floor runner in the front hall, and as he cornered to follow the trespasser outside, he slid, overshot, and crashed into the open front door. He heard a hollow crunch followed by the sound of falling residue as the inner door handle demolished the wall plaster.
Kurt howled in anger, and the thief, for he was indeed a thief, toting a dark satchel full of Kurt’s belongings, turned briefly to glance back at the house he had just robbed, at the man he had somehow bested.
“I know who you are!”
Kurt bellowed. He stood as straight as he could, angrily aware that he was unable to give chase just now,
infuriated
that the guy was actually getting away from him. “I’m going to find you, I’m going to
kill
you!” he shouted. “You’re dead!”
But the man with the satchel had already turned. He was three houses away now, four, and as Kurt again wiped the blood from his eye, a pocket of shadow swallowed both the man and his bag of stolen items.
Kurt steadied himself in the doorway, gazing down the street at the empty front porches and blank windows facing him. Only in America, he thought, only in a country like America could something like this happen, and not a single neighbor would hear a thing, not a soul would be even remotely aware that a crime had been committed right next door. The neighborhood was as impassive as the snow on Kurt’s lawn, though he could see the remains of the man’s hurried footprints on the walkway he had just shoveled clear that afternoon.
His head hurt. And he needed to call the police. Why wasn’t Elyse out here anyway, damn it! She might have recognized the guy, too.
Oh! But Kurt suddenly knew where he’d seen him.
The day before, when he and Elyse had gone with Sonya to identify Reginald’s body.
Sonya had refused to go inside, clinging instead to a chair in the lobby. Elyse had stayed with her while Kurt viewed the remains and signed papers. This guy had been using a push broom, and he’d been moving chairs about, sweeping underneath them.
How would –
How could –
“Elyse!” Kurt called. He moved toward their bedroom. “Elyse!” Sonya had spent a few minutes in the bathroom, and the guy must have overheard Kurt telling Elyse they would spend the night at Sonya’s place. Sonya had refused their suggestions outside, but if he’d assumed Kurt and Elyse weren’t home, and Kurt’s name and address were on all the forms he’d just signed…
“Elyse!!”
Kurt gasped as he flipped on the bedroom light. He was suddenly faint, and the world of pain he’d experienced with the loss of his grandson was immediately trebled, quadrupled. The bedroom became its own kaleidoscope as Kurt tried to understand what he was seeing.
Elyse lay still on the bed, her head on the pillow,
her
nightgown-clad body outside of the covers except for her legs. One arm was flung backwards at an unnatural angle, and both of her eyes were wide open. In the center of her forehead was a hole, a welt, a small red dot with a single jagged line of blood meandering from there into her hairline.
Kurt couldn’t breathe. Kurt couldn’t think. What did it matter that he knew who the thief was? What did anything matter now?
“Elyse, Elyse,” he moaned, afraid to approach her, paralyzed at the thought that what he was seeing might actually be true.
But Kurt knew it was true. The damned Luger must have gone off as he tossed it away from him. How the
HELL
it had hit Elyse with a dead-on shot like that he’d never know!
He closed his eyes and sank slowly to his knees. And Kurt began to bawl. Tears mixed with the blood on his face, streaming downwards, and he didn’t care, he didn’t care about anything! He keeled over on his side, right in the middle of his bedroom doorway, and inhuman wails began to emerge, gasping cries, words of denial alternating with primal sounds that Kurt had never dreamed could be manufactured by
himself
.
“Elyse, Elyse,” he keened.
“Elyse, oh Elyse, Elyse, oh no oh no Elyse.”
Kurt lay on the floor for what seemed like hours, muttering and wailing and praying that this was just another of his nightmares, another dream so real that it practically came with its own repertoire of smells and tactile sensations.
But it wasn’t. It had happened.
Kurt’s wife was dead.
*
*
*
*~
The basement was dark except for the one bright light on the workbench. Kurt had been staring at a model SS standard bearer for at least fifteen minutes, not moving, not even bothering to re-cap the paint bottles he obviously had no capability to use.
Elyse’s funeral had been terrible. A horrific ordeal that had left him
empty,
isolated, alone. Johnnie had been there with Amy, Sonya had held his hand throughout, neighbors and acquaintances and former co-workers had filled the pews and surrounded the gravesite. But even amid the sympathetic masses, the sense of being entirely abandoned was how Kurt had felt.
No one blamed him for Elyse’s death.
Except Kurt himself.
No one even found him partially culpable. A man had a right to own a gun. A man had a right to defend his home. It was an accident.
The true culprit had fled. He hadn’t been seen since.
Kurt didn’t care. He knew he
would
care, and soon, but right at the moment, he didn’t give a crap about anything.
He pushed the button on his light and the room was plunged into darkness. After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted and he could see dull moonlight seeping through the basement’s three high windows.
Just as Sonya had done the week before, Kurt had refused a chaperone for the night; Johnnie and Amy were staying with Sonya. He understood her decision now: a large part of him wanted to
soak
in misery, to absolutely
sate
himself
with agony.
His fault, his fault.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Either way, he was alone.
Alone.
Alone.