Faces in the night, p.1
Faces in the Night, page 1
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PART I: Blake
Chapter 1 (1994)
It was remarkable, Blake thought, but after all the years of living together, he still enjoyed seeing Katherine naked more than anything else in the world.
It was early morning and Blake was stirring skim-milk into his coffee while he gazed out the kitchen window and watched the sun rise over the 40-foot-high tulip tree in the backyard--planted by Katherine the day they moved in a decade ago, small and scrawny back then.
“Blake, Hon,” Katherine said as she walked about the kitchen. “Let’s talk.”
Blake. That was it. Just Blake. Nobody called him Robert and hadn’t since his parents died years ago. He had been Blake to everybody except his parents since high school--even to Katherine. In high school there had been a Robert O’Connell, a Bobby O’Connor, and a Rob Putnam. There was room for a Blake but no room for any additional Roberts, Bobbys, or Robs. So it was Blake. His surname--his only name.
Blake. That was what everybody called him in Vietnam too. Kevin’s last words as he jumped from the helicopter that steaming morning in Vietnam had been addressed to a Blake. Let’s see--25 years ago; that would be 9,125 days in the past--and he was still remembering it; still counting the days. There is no way of judging how people will react when danger, terror, and fear explode in their face. Some people do the right thing--automatically like a shortstop scooping up a hard hit ground ball--others, like him, do the wrong thing--or nothing at all.
“Hey, Blake, let’s go. We gotta go stop this shit.” He could still hear Kevin Flanagan’s voice calling through the thin mist of smoke that had settled around their chopper when it landed in the soft, dense mud near the village perimeter. He could still hear his voice and would until the day he died. Kevin had called to him and then jumped to the ground and run off in the direction of the gunfire. He’d turned just once to look back over his shoulder. “Come on Blake, let’s go.” But Blake had lingered long enough in the chopper’s open door to lose his nerve, and to survive.
“Come on Blake...come on Blake...come on Blake.” Kevin calling out his name over all these years. “Come on Blake.” And he had never budged. The sun beating down on the ground that morning; the spikes of mist twirling in the damp air inches above the thick grass, and always Kevin Flanagan’s voice calling his name.
But this morning it was Katherine calling his name. He knew what was coming. Katherine liked to walk about the house naked in the morning. She would finish her shower and then with coffee cup in hand wander from room to room—drying her hair, listening to the news on National Public Radio, reading the newspaper over his shoulder while she nibbled on toast. She was casual about nudity and he liked that. He had turned from the window to watch her. She stood naked at the kitchen counter spreading raspberry jam on a piece of whole-wheat toast, the early morning sun streaking her dark blonde hair and throwing a yellow shaft down her naked back, her hair still wet from the shower. Blake looked at her.
“Blake, Hon,” she said turning and looking directly into his eyes. “This is it. You’ve got to get it together or this is it. OK.”
“Meaning what?” he asked.
“You’re not working at Audubon again this week.” Katherine said.
“They gave me a leave of absence, Kath. I’ll go back in a week or so.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know Kath. I don’t know.”
“You could work on the house,” Katherine said. “Maybe that will get you back in the groove. You used to like to work once upon a time. And the house needs it.”
She was right about that.
After Katherine left for work, Blake had gone outside to squint at the sagging front porch with its peeling paint. He’d start fixing the place up this very morning--surprise Katherine when she came home.
This had once been a grand house. Built solid and sturdy 100 years ago, with wide pine-board floors, solid oak balustrades, and a large front porch that stretched the length of the house and looked like it had been carved out of mahogany, though in reality it was polished oak. Katherine had pointed this all out when they first moved in. She had studied to be an architect as an undergrad and still subscribed to “Architectural Digest,” copies of which lay neatly piled on an antique Victorian candle stand in the living room. She loved old houses and had fallen in love with this one immediately.
He didn’t care where they lived back when they bought the house. He was still in the middle of his worst period. Katherine and he had lived here now for 10 years and, except for a few sporadic projects every other year or so, he had done nothing to improve and fix the house, although that had been the plan when they moved here. They would work and on weekends restore this house. They would then sell the house, buy another with the profits, and then restore and sell that one.
It hadn’t worked out that way. In the early days there had been vodka, cocaine, and lots of rage. He’d been fired from two jobs. But he had rebounded. Patched things up with Katherine; started a new career as an educational assistant specializing in turtles at the local Audubon sanctuary, and become sober.
But recently the nightmares had started again.
He was not sure why. They felt like a summons, but to where or why, he couldn’t tell.
Now, he no longer slept through the night. He thrashed and turned, keeping Katherine awake. He would get up and go downstairs to sit on the couch and doze but the bad dreams followed him--he was falling and screaming for help but nobody answered; he was lost in a dark place and somebody was following him breathing heavily; he was trapped in a mine shaft or culvert and terrible deformed faces were peering at him from above as if he were a small animal caught and soon to be consumed; he was standing in front of a group of people weeping and crushed and begging forgiveness, yet nobody would look at him or speak to him. And all through the bad dreams a deep fear that he was being watched—something strange and alien tracking his movements the way a hunter stalks a deer.
And then, just this morning, a new vision. A young girl, perhaps 12 or so, with deep blue eyes and a big child-like smile that flashed across her face. The smile of a 4 or 5-year old, though the girl was older. The girl stared at him and then held up a white board and using a big black marker wrote a message on the board: “Now it’s your turn to stop him.”
Blake had thrown off his covers and stumbled from bed, sweating and shaking. The image of the girl in his dream lingered as he hurried down stairs. What did she mean?
Stop who?
Now, it’s your turn. What the fuck did that mean?
Blake turned from contemplating the sagging front porch and went back inside the house to gather his tools. The morning newspaper was on the kitchen counter where Katherine had left it. Blake picked it up. He was going to just glance at the Sports section and then get started on the house, but a small news item caught his attention and changed everything.
There it was on Page 10, in with a bunch of other stories each only a paragraph or two, gathered and neatly boxed under the heading “National News Roundup.” He read it first standing at the kitchen table, dizzy and light-headed, and then again a moment later—sitting down, trying to be calm. “Smooth it out,” he said aloud to himself. “Stay cool. Smooth it out.”
A family’s 25 year wait to learn the fate of a son who was reported missing in action in North Vietnam in 1969 ended with a call from the Pentagon earlier this week that said their son’s remains had been recovered and identified. Kevin Flanagan of Belton, Massachusetts was reported missing in action on April 9, 1969.
April 9, 1969--what a day. A day that had never left him.
He glanced again at the story.
Flanagan’s remains were expected to be flown to Massachusetts sometime in the next several days. Services are planned for Memorial Day in his hometown of Belton, in Central-Western Massachusetts near the giant Quabbin Reservoir.”
Kevin’s voice was pounding inside his head calling to him across all these years.
“Come on Blake...come on Blake...come on Blake.”
Blake sat still in his chair at the kitchen table in Ohio, tears rolling down his face.
* * *
Chapter 2
Blake put the newspaper on the kitchen table and stood. He was shaking. After all these years, Kevin Flanagan was coming home—coming home to his little town near this Quabbin Reservoir that he had loved to talk about.
They would fly in their chopper deep into the lush hills of Vietnam heading for trouble, and Kevin would talk the whole time as if they were driving on the highway going to a concert. Kevin loved Led Zeppelin, which had just released their first album with the song Your Time Is Gonna Come—a big favorite of Kevin’s.
“An instant classic,” he’d proclaim. “You’ve got to listen to these guys. Better than the Stones, really. I’ll play them for you next time at base. You’ll love it. Guaranteed.” And then he’d sing and recite a few lines: “One of these days and it won’t be long / You’ll look for me and I’ll be gone”
After a few moments he’d turn from Led Zeppelin to talking about his hometown and Quabbin Reservoir. “Great place and nobody knows about it. It’s a big, big reservoir, but you can hike and fish. No place really like it. All sorts of old folk from these four towns that were destroyed are still around. The old roads and the old fields are still there too. They chased everybody out and flooded a whole valley. But at least we got a really great wilderness place out of it.”
And now Kevin’s body was coming home and they w
Blake left the kitchen and stepped outside. He’d have to go; he’d have to at least say goodbye to Kevin.
Blake opened the garage door. A police car stopped on the street 40 feet away and for a moment Blake’s heart skipped a beat. He always reacted badly to authority figures. He exhaled with relief when he realized who it was.
Bobby Doyle stuck his head out of the driver’s-side window. Bobby Doyle was his next door neighbor. “Hey. You still gonna paint that shack, or what? Please tell me that you’re standing there trying to figure out how much paint to buy.”
“Color, Bobby, color. I’m thinking ‘bout color. How’s pink with a nice purple trim sound to you? Maybe a day-glow orange for the porch.”
“Match those shirts you used to wear round the neighborhood back when you first came,” Bobby shot back. “But hey, if it’d get you off your duff, I’d even paint my garage here day-glow orange just to make you feel better.”
Blake smiled and turned to look at Bobby’s neat, trim two-story house with its perfectly mowed lawn and clean, white attached garage standing in prim contrast to his peeling Victorian. “Not necessary, Bobby, and besides property values are gonna go down if all the places on the street look the same.”
“Property values,” Bobby sputtered. “You talking property values is like your buddy there Clinton teaching Sunday school.”
Blake smiled again, showing a row of neat, freshly capped white teeth. You had to like Bobby Doyle. Everybody did. Just like Kevin Flanagan. If Kevin had lived, that’s what he’d probably be today; a big, good-hearted Irish cop, or maybe a sports reporter. Blake stopped. He shook his head like a bee had stung him. He couldn’t think like that. The familiar stab of pain had started in the chest. Like he’d swallowed a mouthful of boiling hot coffee too quickly.
Bobby was watching him closely. “You having another one of your anxiety attacks,” Bobby asked.
“Nah, I’m OK. Still shaky from that damn flu I had last week.”
“Sure,” Bobby said. “That darn flu is always after you seems. Take it easy. OK.” Bobby had gone to his professional-cop’s voice--clear, uninflected, nonjudgmental.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be OK. Got to go see Katherine for a bit.”
“Good lady you got there,” Bobby said. “All the boys at the station listen to that radio show of hers all the time.”
“Sure, I bet they do. Checking to see if their wives are calling in to get some tips,” Blake laughed feeling relaxed again.
“Well, it’s more entertaining than listening to Rush Limbaugh,” Bobby said. “And, hey, somebody in your house has gotta work.”
Blake smiled and waved as Bobby drove off in his cruiser. Back inside the house, he packed quickly, stuffing clothes, maps, and rain gear in the worn leather saddlebags that he’d used for the past 15 years. But now, he knew what to do. He paused before taking a small picture of Katherine that he kept on his bureau and putting it in with his other gear.
The garage was damp and smelled of oil and paint. His leather jacket and helmet were in a small closet next to the kitchen door. He took them out and slipped the jacket on, zipping it up in a single, smooth motion. Next, he pulled on his red and white helmet with the clear plastic visor, and finally his leather gloves with studded palms. His motorcycle, a Harley Davidson stood in a corner.
He straddled the machine easily with his 6 foot 3 inch body. He rocked the motorcycle forward and then back and then forward again in a maneuver that was as automatic as turning a key. The kickstand snapped up and the front tire dropped down to the floor. He wheeled the dark green Harley through the open garage door. Outside, in the early morning sun, he put the key into the ignition and turned it. Lights flickered on the instrument panel. He pushed the starter button with his left hand while twisting the right grip handle for the throttle. The motorcycle gurgled once and then roared.
Blake rode down the driveway and into the street. This was not a chopped-down Harley of the kind favored by motorcycle gangs. This was a fully equipped, 1200cc Harley-Davidson motorcycle capable of cruising at 100 mph. He would drive to Washington, D.C. in a day, visit the Vietnam Memorial and see Kevin Flanagan’s name there, and then go to the memorial service in the town of Belton.
* * *
Chapter 3
It took him 20 minutes to maneuver through downtown traffic. He parked his Harley in a reserved space in the parking lot and entered the front door of the red-granite office building where Katherine worked. She was on the third floor. He never bothered with the elevator. Two steps at a time, he climbed to the third floor and pushed through the big glass door marked WEET.
The receptionist, Mrs. Edie, nodded at him. She was a blue-haired lady in her late 60s who favored bright jogging outfits. Today, she was wearing a neon maroon with white trim.
“She’s on the air, but they’re coming up to a station break in under two minutes,” Mrs. Edie said in the hushed voice that she always used--as if the radio audience could somehow hear loud conversations emanating from the reception room.
Blake nodded and walked down the hallway. Katherine was in the second glass-enclosed booth off the hallway. She was talking into the microphone, blonde head tilted to one side in a familiar pose. Katherine was in her mid-40s but looked younger. Forrest, her producer and on-air foil, sat nearby cradling his own microphone.
Katherine spotted him immediately and held up two fingers to indicate the time until she could break free. Blake nodded and sat down. Near the chairs in the hallway was a radio tuned to the station. Katherine’s voice, calm and soothing like an understanding best friend or sister, filled the hallway.
“Ok, Jim. So what’s the problem?”
“I thought my penis was enough to satisfy any woman until I met Claudia,” a male caller was saying on the air. “I had trained myself to last a long time during sex. I figured, what more could a woman want?”
“What indeed,” Katherine said with just the faintest hint of exasperation.
“You know, the thing is,” the male voice went on,” all this stuff about ‘let’s take a bath together,’ or ‘you never want to talk after sex’, or ‘you never pay attention to what I have to say’, I mean, what do you women want? A guy works hard, and is good in bed. That’s what guys do. What more is there?”
“Apparently nothing,” Katherine said into the microphone with a small sigh. “Unless you consider Paris, and rose gardens on a sunny afternoon, and the surf breaking over a deserted beach at midnight.”
“Ah, come on. Give me a break,” the male caller sighed audibly.
Only about 20 percent of Katherine’s callers were men, but nearly 40 percent of her overall listeners were male. Women were her largest audience and her most frequent callers, and women in the 30-to-45-year-old age group made up the biggest part of her audience, both for callers and non-calling listeners.
“The demographics are great,” Forrest marveled every time he got the Arbitron report. Advertisers coveted women in their 30s and 40s, and Katherine’s show attracted that group “like bees to honey,” Forrest proclaimed, never afraid of a cliché.
The idea for the show had been Forrest’s. He had been in radio most of his life, and had met Katherine when she was doing a weekend antiques show on WEET. Forrest was 46 years old, a few years older than Katherine, married with three children and a hard-charging wife who worked in real estate. He was thin and bald and an exercise nut, bicycling to and from work every day, no matter the weather, except in deepest winter.
“Guys and women who are married and living with a partner need sex advice more than anybody,” Forrest said, when he pitched the idea for the show to Katherine. Her antiques show was about to be cancelled; she needed a job, so why not try a sexual advice call-in show? Forrest came up with her on-air name--an anagram of two famous sex symbols--and the rest was history. In her third year, the show was hot and still growing, with talk of going national.
Katherine had a natural ability to talk of intimate sexual matters without sounding coarse, and that attracted the women to her show. The men liked her too--she understood and accepted their quirks and fetishes without sounding judgmental. The show was a forum in that way--guys in their 30s and 40s calling in to complain that they couldn’t get their wives and girlfriends to do this or try that; wear a garterbelt; go to a party without underwear; take naked pictures together--and the women calling back with their own complaints and plaintive questions about what it was that men really wanted.
