Beyond and Within

He put his arm around his father's shoulder and held him close.

+++++

She was sifting through the dead woman's effects at the station when she came across the letter. From someone professing eternal love. Someone obviously not her husband. She held the paper in her hands and looked at the handwriting -- very feminine, and very strong. She looked at the envelope, and at the return address, and she frowned.

She decided to visit the address after she finished-up the days supplemental reports. There were no felonious crimes involved involved in the accident, so the woman's effects would soon be returned to her husband. And, obviously, he would find the letter, then doubts and questions would forever cloud his memory of the woman -- the wife he thought he knew.

And so she wondered. Should she? Should she destroy the letter?

She decided to talk to the woman first.

+++++

He leaned over his daughter, looked down at her groggy smile, at the hope and fear and confusion he saw in her eyes.

'But isn't that just what I feel?' he asked himself as he looked into his daughter's eyes. 'So much like Sharon's,' he thought, 'but kind of like me, too. Confused -- '

"What happened?" she asked as she came out of the ether.

"You were in an accident, honey. On the way to school."

"Where am I?"

"Baylor. You've been in surgery and your head is immobilized now, so don't panic if you feel closed in. I'm right here, and so is Pa-Pa."

"Your father's here?" Jennifer asked, her voice now unsteady.

He smiled. "Yeah, I broke down and called the old goat. Sorry to disillusion you."

And she had smiled then. "I've been hoping you two would kiss and make-up one day," she added, smiling a little more now. "Where's Mom?"

He took her hands and looked his daughter in the eye, then simply shook his head.

"Oh," Jenn said, and that was that.

He squeezed her hand as gently as he dared but there was no response and he wondered if she could feel him -- yet he was afraid to ask. "I haven't had a chance to think about it much," he whispered.

"I remember you leaving last night," she said, trying to brighten things up -- like she always did. "A training flight, wasn't it?"

"Yes, that's right."

"How'd it go?"

"Not bad. Did you hear the thunderstorms?"

"Yeah, big winds, then some hail. Were you in that stuff?"

"Almost. We managed to run away in time."

She looked at him now, looked deeply into his eyes. "Was it bad?"

"A little," he said, thinking of the inrushing apartment again, then the flames and burning people came by for another visit. It was always the same, and he knew she knew all about it. Of all the people in the world, he wondered, his fourteen year old daughter knew him best of all. As Sharon had grown more cool and distant over the last year, Jenn had stepped in and filled the emotional void.

"Am I going to be okay, Daddy?"

The words tore through him like gales of doubt, and he shrugged as he looked into her eyes. "From what they've told me so far, yes. But a lot depends on how well the surgery went."

"I can't feel your hands," she whispered as she looked away. "Daddy...I'm so scared."

"I am too, Honey. I am too." He wiped away her tears as she fell asleep again, and this time he got up and walked out to talk with his father.

"Well?" his old man said, his eyes burning now.

He shrugged. "She couldn't feel my hands."

"Damn. What did the doc say? Two to three days 'til we know for sure? If the swelling goes down?"

He nodded. "Let me take you out, buy you a steak and some whiskey."

"You sure you can stand to be around me that long?"

"I'm not sure I can stand to not be with you any more, Dad. I need you, and I know Jenny does too."

His old man nodded and he watched as his father wiped away a tear. "That sounds good to me, son."

He put his arms around his father's shoulder and they walked down to the elevators.

+++++

The door opened and a woman stood there. Attractive, controlling, almost domineering. She knew the type...all too well.

"Yes?" the woman said, looking at the policewoman -- and at the clipboard under her arm.

"Is your name Goldstein?"

"Yes? What's going on? Is something wrong?"

"May I come in, Ma'am. This is something personal, and private."

"Yes, of course," Goldstein said while holding the door open, and she stepped into the living room, looking around the ornately decorated room as she did. Tasteful, almost elegant décor. A few framed photos on a bookcase, a diploma on the wall over a little writing desk. University of Texas, Austin, a B.S. in sociology twenty years ago.

"What's this about?" Goldstein asked, then her eyes went wide when she saw the letter on the cop's clipboard. "Where'd you get that?"

"From Sharon King's purse."

"What's happened?"

"An accident. She was killed earlier today."

Not a blink, not one tear, just the shallowest layer of recognition before cold, hard denial set-in.

"Denton? How is he? Does he know yet?"

"Yes. He's at the hospital."

"The hospital?"

"His daughter, Jennifer. She was injured."

And that caused the woman to come apart at the seams. She sat, buried her face in her hands and started crying.

And after that first unravelling they talked. For a long, long time.

+++++

"You seem distracted, Denny. What is it? What else is happening?"

"The dreams again."

"What? From that accident?"

"Yeah."

"It's been, what? Two years?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Close enough."

"Are you seeing someone?"

"Yup. The flight surgeon hooked me up with a counselor over at Southwestern. She teaches grief counseling, if you can imagine that." He paused, looked up at the ceiling. "I wonder, Dad. What kind of society have we become that we need so many grief counselors?"

"We probably always did, son. There just wasn't anyone like that waiting in the wings." His old man chuckled as he looked down at his hands. "We're not where we thought we'd end up, are we?" He was trying to smile now, but the look in his son's eyes was troubling. He'd never seen so much uncertainty in his boy before, and to find it now, when he needed to believe in himself most -- if not for his own sake, then for his daughter's? "What are you going to do now?"

"I've got to get Sharon's family down here for some kind of service..."

"They're the religious ones, right?"

"Yup."

"Still broke, I take it? Wallowing around in their superstitions, living on the edge of yesterday? On the outside, looking in? Isn't that the way her father put it...?"

"They worked hard to get Sharon to school, Dad. They're not bad people."

"I suppose. They'll want a full service, no doubt."

"Yeah. You know, Sharon and I took care of that a few years ago. Everything is all set; I called the funeral home a few hours ago..."

"And you called her family, too? Where do they live now?"

"Kentucky. Near Frankfurt."

"Hillbillies. How'd you get involved with a bunch of hillbillies?"

"You never got to know Sharon's people they way I did, Dad."

"Oh, she was a sweet gal, sure enough...I'm just not sure about those mountain people." The old man took a long, deep breath, then let it slip out slowly. "Geezus, it's hard to talk about her like that, in the past tense already."

He looked away, didn't quite know how to respond to words so inward looking, but his father had always been somewhat callous, almost a narcissist. But, he knew, most politicians were, especially the successful ones -- the ones just like his father. "When do you go back to Washington," he asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Hmm? Oh, the next session starts in another week, but I'm supposed to go to Dubai the day after tomorrow."

"Dubai?"

"I'm trying to broker a deal with the Saudis -- that Yemen shit."

"Waste of time, Dad. Those people live to die, worse than samurai culture."

"Too much invested to walk away now, son. We can't, so we won't."

"They keep buying our funny money, isn't that what you mean?"

"Something like that, yes."

"What was that the kids on campus used to rally 'round? No more blood for oil?"

"When was that?"

"'91, during Desert Shield. Not much has changed since, has it?"

"Too much money in the chase, son. Musical chairs. No one wants to be the last man standing."

"You want to come to the service?"

"No, but I will if you want me to."

He looked at his father, at the implacable foe that had chased his generation from the start. If his father's generation had been consumed with getting out from under the Greatest Generation's shadow, his generation would be cleaning up their mess. And now, even now, there was no duty to family in this man -- unless someone happened to be filming a campaign spot, when suddenly family values shot back into the spotlight. He shook his head, looked away, then stood and held out his right hand.

"Always nice seeing you, Bennett."

But he turned away before his father could react, and he walked from the restaurant and into the night.

+++++

She walked out of Goldstein's home and down to her squad car, checked-in with dispatch and drove back to Central where she finished her last report. A few minutes later she walked out to her personal car and got in, checked her watch and pulled out her cellphone. She thought it over then dialed his number.

"King," said the voice on the other end of the connection.

"It's Officer Green, from this morning."

"Oh, yes. What can I do for you?"

"I need to talk with you. Tonight, if possible."

"I'm sitting on the patio right now; just come around the side and let yourself in the gate."

"Thank you, sir."

On the patio...now? She looked at her watch and shook her head.

She drove up Central to Mockingbird and then took the backstreets to his house and parked on the street a few houses away, then walked to the side gate and let herself in. He was sitting by the pool on a dark slate terrace, looking down into the black water.

And he must have heard her because as she drew near he began speaking.

"Have you ever wondered what its like down there?" he asked, his head nodding towards the water.

She stopped and looked into the pool, and only then noticed the walls and floor of the pool were finished in deep slate-colored tile, even the grout, and so the effect was like looking into a grotto at midnight.

"Wondered what -- about?" she thought -- aloud.

"What it must be like to live down there, in the sea?"

She walked up to him and waited for the moment to pass.

"You're off duty, I take it?"

"Yessir."

"I see. Scotch and water?"

"Scotch, neat."

"Good girl."

She smiled -- because in a way he reminded her of her grandfather, and she watched him disappear into the house. He came out a minute later carrying two glasses, and he put hers down on a little glass-topped table between two wicker patio chairs. "Have a seat. Tell me what's on your mind."

She sat, picked up the drink and took a long pull, then set the glass down.

"Doris Goldstein."

She was watching him as she said those two words, but he didn't flinch -- or even blink an eye.

"And...?" he asked.

"What do you know about her?"

"She works with my wife, as a guidance counselor for the school district."

"Anything else?"

"Oh, only that she and my wife have been lovers for a while."

"And you know about that how?"

"How? Oh, a million little things. You put all the pieces together and you just know. What's this got to do with..."

"I found a letter in your wife's purse. I didn't know what to do with it?"

"I see."

"How's your daughter?"

"They tell me its even money right now, and to top it all off she'll be on antibiotics for the rest of her life -- until those stop working, anyway."

"And, if you don't mind me asking, how are you?"

"Me? I'm peachy."

"So, you're Senator King's son? What's that like?"

"Peachy."

"I take it you don't like peaches?"

He laughed at that, then looked up at the cop. "Why are you here?"

"Because I didn't want you to be alone tonight."

He nodded, tried not to smile then shook his head. "And, I wonder, why is that?"

"Do you want to talk?"

"About what? Twisted Swedish metal or my wife, now in a refrigerated box at the morgue?"

"About what comes next."

"Oh? What comes next?"

"That girl, for one. Doris Goldstein too, I guess."

"My wife's lover? Really? She comes next?"

"She's devastated. And she still loves you."

"You talked with her tonight, I assume?"

"Long enough to know what her feelings are, or were, about you?"

"The ghost of Christmases Past, eh? So, she told you we had an affair?"

"Not the details, but...yes."

"Jesus. And let me guess. That's why she homed-in on Sharon."

"Seduced was the word she used."

"To get back at me?"

"She seemed to think so, at least tonight she did."

"You know, once upon a time I thought about joining the Jesuits. Think I made a big fucking mistake on that one."

"I doubt your daughter would agree with that."

"How's your drink holding up?"

"Fine. Did they chase you off the floor?"

"Yup. Told me they'd call if there was any change and to go home, try to get some sleep."

"And then I called."

"And I couldn't sleep anyway, so glad to have the company. You have to go in tomorrow?"

"Three days off, then I'm on reassignment. Teaching at the academy."

"Oh? What do you teach?"

"Penal Code 101."

"Sounds thrilling."

"So, you're involved with training now?"

"Kind of involuntarily, but yes."

"Involuntarily?"

"I was involved in a crash a few years ago. Nightmares ever since, unless I sleep during the day."

"What happened?"

"The shit hit the fan. Outside of Hartford, Connecticut, a few years ago."

"Windsor Locks? That one?"

"Yup."

"I thought they called you a hero after that."

He shrugged. "Doesn't make the memory any less intense, I guess."

"So...do you like training new pilots?"

"No, not really."

"You want to go back to flying a schedule?"

She saw him look up at the sky and she looked up too, perhaps involuntarily -- and she wondered: what did he see up there? What must it feel like to live, and work, up there...?

"Never see the stars anymore -- at least not from the city, ya know? I hear it's called light pollution. Like we've fucked up everything else on this planet, so why not fuck up the stars, too."

"They're still up there, or so I hear."

"Not here, they're not."

"Is it so important?"

"Maybe, but whatever else you might say about all this," he said, spreading his arms wide, "we've lost our since of magic, or maybe our sense of wonder. All that's left is entertainment, and social-fucking-media."

"So, why flying? I mean, why not the family business?"

"Politics?"

"It's an honorable profession..."

"No, it's not. Maybe it used to be, but those days are long gone."

"You mean there are no more honorable men?"

"There's too much money in it these days, and now, to put things in perspective, you don't serve the common good. And cops...you serve the interests of your puppeteers, somewhere off in the shadows."

She almost laughed. "Oh, is that what I do...?" She paused, looked at him still looking up at the sky. "Is that what I was doing this morning?"

"Sure. It serves the puppeteers' interests to preserve the appearance of normalcy. Of security. The puppets have to be happy in order to keep the whole show running, because without the system the puppeteers are nothing but shadows on the back of a cave wall."

"You sound like someone right out of the sixties."

"No such luck. I was born the day Kennedy was killed..."

"Which one?"

"You mean...you know the difference? I am amazed."

She laughed. "I got my degree in U.S. History."

"An educated cop. Now ladies and gentlemen, there's an oxymoron just for you -- behind curtain number three."

"So, you hate cops too?"

"I hate what cops have become."

"That's an awful lot of hate you're carrying around inside," she said.

"Yeah. Ain't it the awful truth," he said, trying an awful lot to sound just like Cary Grant.

"What was that all about?"

"What?"

"The voice, the accent."

"A Cary Grant movie, from the thirties."

"Oh."

"I like the popular perception of moral certainty in those films. United by the depression, all of us working for the common good."

"Except that wasn't how it was. Not really. Films were usually stories of the jolly escapades of the ultra-rich..."

"Ever see Sullivan's Travels?"

"No."

"You should. Might shatter a few misconceptions."

"The thirties weren't all about..."

"Oh...I know. There have always been puppeteers. There always will be."

"When we got here this morning...when you first came to the door...you were sweating and looked anxious. What was going on?"

He looked down at his hands for a moment, then turned and looked at her. "I don't know you well enough for that one, kiddo."

"Try me."

He shook his head. "Maybe some other time..."

His cell phone chirped and he picked it up...

"King."

He listened, but he was up and running for the garage even as he listened, and she got up and ran after him. As he approached his car he paused and turned to her: "You'd better drive. Keys are in the ignition."

She nodded without comment and got behind the wheel; while she adjusted the seat and mirrors he opened the overhead door and she looked at him, thought about the number of men she knew who might so openly trust a stranger -- let alone a woman -- and she wondered about this man once again. He was so self-aware, yet not self-possessed, yet the idea this came from flying never entered her mind.

"I assume you know the quickest way there," he sighed -- and she noted no tension in his voice, just a calm "let's work the problem" way of talking she found utterly unnerving. 'If this was my daughter,' she thought, 'I'd be coming apart at the seams...'

She stuck to surface streets and made her way to Gaston Avenue, dropped him at the main entrance and drove off to park his car -- and only then did she notice the time -- after three in the morning...

Then she realized she'd had nothing to eat or drink but half a shot of Scotch -- how many hours ago? -- and she rummaged in her uniform pocket until she found a roll of antacids and popped two, chewing the chalking crud and swallowing hard as she walked over to the main entrance. Half expecting King to be on his way to his daughter's room she was surprised to find him at the main information desk, eyes hooded and red, the volunteer behind the desk looking more concerned than apologetic.

"What's happened?" she said as the pieces began falling into place.

"She never woke up," he said. "An aneurysm of some sort. Undetected. Massive. She's gone."

His was a robot-like demeanor now, even the motions of his arms and face while he talked seemed mechanically contrived, almost ritualized, and the old man behind the counter motioned to her, 'asked' her to come close with a nod of his head.

"I've called someone down to talk to him," the old man whispered conspiratorially. "Shouldn't be long."

She nodded, smiled, then turned back and looked at King. He had gone rigid, was staring at an unseen spot somewhere beyond the floor, and the only movement she saw was a line of muscle twitching from his temple to his jaw, and when she stepped closer still she watched his carotids pulsing in his neck. She counted the hammer blows -- 120, maybe 130 -- and she saw a fine bead of perspiration had formed on his upper lip.

She took him by the arm and led him to a row of standard-issue hospital waiting room chairs and guided him down, then she knelt in front of him and put her hand on his cheek...

Nothing. Not even a blink when she snapped her fingers in front of his eyes.

She felt someone kneel beside her on the flecked terrazzo, saw a while lab coat and a stethoscope and she moved aside, watched the rapid assessment and the knowing nod. Orderlies appeared, a wheelchair summoned -- and fearful of career consequences she dashed to intervene.