by Douglas Lain
Who is shooting?
Why does there always have to be shooting?
I suddenly see that I’m standing in someone’s blood, and then the policeman drags me away for interrogation. Did you see whose blood I was standing in? Was it a woman of a certain width and depth and height? I’ll ask the questions, he says. Actually her width and depth vary as you move your eyes up and down her height which is generally consistent.
He wants to know about the shooting. We are Americans, I tell him, and for us, after 9/11, everything is about shooting and screaming and standing in blood, even when it’s not. We do not appreciate that kind of talk at a facility like this, he tells me. He pushes me down onto a hard wooden chair.
A woman runs up and shoulders the policeman aside and drops down on her knees in front of me. Caroline, is that you? It’s okay, she says, I’m here. How can I know that’s you? She leans in and flips her hair away from the side of her face, and I see her left ear in extreme close-up. She turns quickly and shows me the other one. Her ears are beautiful pink seashells in the sunshine. They fill my world with joy. They really are, I feel compelled to report, enormous.
Kris Saknussemm is a Philip K. Dick Award-nominated novelist (Zanesville), a Mary Gilmore Award-winning poet (In the Name of the Father), a forthcoming playwright (The Humble Assessment) and a short story writer whose works have received the Fiction Collective Two Award for Innovative Writing. He is also rumored to be a pen name used by the late David Foster Wallace, or if not that then a name taken by a collective of writers working in collaboration out of Las Vegas, Paris, or possibly outer space. When asked about this possibility he reportedly said, “I’m real enough.” That hardly settles the matter, does it?
Moral judgment is the cornerstone of “Beyond the Flags,” which revolves around a “Master of the Universe,” a self-designated label for those who work on Wall Street. It may remind readers of “Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” as well, if Ambrose had decided to include anal sex and Seconal in his tale.
BEYOND THE FLAGS
Kris Saknussemm
MAGNIFICENT STAMFORD CT LAKESIDE HIDEAWAY UNDERSTATES THIS 12,000 SF STONE MANOR ESTATE WITHIN 45 MINUTES FROM MANHATTAN & 15 MINUTES FROM WESTCHESTER COUNTY AIRPORT. THE FRONT GATE OPENS TO A COBBLESTONE DRIVEWAY WHERE BEAUTIFUL GARDENS WELCOME YOU. WATER VIEWS ARE FEATURED FROM MOST ROOMS. A FULL GYM W/ADJACENT STEAM ROOM, ELEVATOR ACCESS TO ALL LEVELS AND STATE OF THE ART HOME THEATRE COMPLEMENT THE EXPANSIVE GOURMET KITCHEN, DINING & LIVING SPACES. EXTERIOR FEATURES INCLUDE BASKETBALL COURT, INFINITY EDGE POOL & 13 FT CEILING GARAGE. STAIRS DOWN TO A LAKESIDE SITTING AREA AS WELL AS A TEMP-CONTROLLED MAHOGANY CRAFTED WINE CELLAR ENHANCE THE LEISURE LIFESTYLE.
What real estate bullshit, he laughed. Still, he liked reading the description. It made the house seem more real to him. He was so seldom there, as his wife so often pointed out. He slipped the creased flyer into his briefcase with the hand-tooled letters Paul T. Connors on the flap. It was sort of a luck charm—and as his old friend and investment guide Joe Barnett had always said, “There’s nothing wrong with being superstitious. Finance is a cutthroat, magical business.”
Things didn’t turn out well for Joe. When the Dubai funding went south and there was a discrepancy in the holding account, his old comrade decided to fall on his sword, in the form of a handful of Seconal and a jelly jar of premium single malt in an Adirondack chair in the Hamptons. He was found three days later, his stiffened body molded into the shape of the chair.
Still, one man’s fall from grace can be another man’s windfall. Paul had made a lot of money in the power vacuum that resulted. He didn’t drive an Aston Martin Vanquish like Rudy Olson yet, but he had a daffodil-yellow Maserati Spyder. And his wife was loaded with old Greenwich money. All he had to do was keep the deals fluid and his wife hoodwinked, and everything would be gravy.
It wasn’t just that Sophie was younger than his wife. He didn’t care so much about that. Sophie was hot—Argentinian and Swedish. Down where women really taste, she tasted like cantaloupe and marzipan. Her butthole was sweetly puckered but nearly unwrinkled, like a young girl laughing in a tree house, playing naughty doctor and nurse. Her nipples were fiercely pronounced and sensitive. She could arch her back to make her body appear like some new kind of musical note. She fucked like a panther.
More importantly even than that, she was actually generous in bed. Expressive. Back at Yale, he remembered reading some Henry Miller. One line stuck with him. “She said the things a man wants to hear when he’s climbing on top of her.” Sophie had the sexiest damn voice—and she vocalized. His wife barely ever groaned, even when he was pumped up. Sophie always knew what to say . . . from a wordless throaty murmur . . . to “Oh daddy” . . . to “Fuck God, stick that big thing in my ass!”
He’d met her at the Zinc Bar, a private client function. Very intimate. They’d hired Tony Bennett to sing and circulate. She was a rented schmoozer and cleavage flasher. Bait for the sharks. Mostly Arabs and Japanese. An iridescent little sapphire evening dress and chase-me-catch-me heels fresh out of a 34th Street box. She was always fresh out of the box. And what a box.
After the after party, he’d seen her back to a coffin-sized studio off Atlantic in Brooklyn—and that pretty much was that. She soon quit the PR company. At first he stashed her in a newly renovated condo in Alphabet City, with real hardwood floors and a working fireplace. They swanned around boutique bars and sugar lounges. Vintage wine and black licorice flavored drinks at sunrise, overlooking the river . . . lobster tails and eye filets, knickers the color of candy.
One morning came a dose of reality. The Termite, his nemesis at work, Marshal Claver, got very publicly humiliated by his enraged wife. She served him with papers in front of everyone and chucked around some saucy PI taken photos of him banging his Jamaican gal. It was right during a crucial investor’s meeting, with a highly moralistic key client. Claver had been the best margin man in the business, but within 48 hours, he found his contract terminated and he was headed to court to fight for his equity payout. Almost instantly, he lost the East Village brownstone, the holiday house in the Berkshires, and the mint condition Stutz Bearcat. His wife didn’t stop there. She gutted him like a hapless trout. She got to the Cook Islands money, the developments in Santa Fe and Steamboat Springs, the condo in Maui, and the 38-foot sloop. Two months later he was on the receiving end of an IRS audit that was so vindictive, he called it “a full cavity body search.”
Claver had gotten too cavalier. You can’t get your photo taken with a black fashion model at Sardi’s or in the Rainbow Room on New Year’s Eve and expect to stay under your wife’s radar. Paul cooled his heels with Sophie and moved her out of Manhattan.
His brilliant idea was a place much closer to home. Upper Saddle River in Northern Bergen County, where Nixon lived. He got a great deal on a secluded caretaker’s house that had been subdivided from one of the big mansions. He could slip out more often to see her. She could hoot and holler. And in a neighborhood like that, even cold-blooded murder seems above board.
He had a special present from his latest trip to London. A delphinium lace camisole and a tastefully raunchy thong from Agent Provacateur—plus a bottle of Piper-Heidsieck. He often did take the train into work. He lived close to the New Haven line of Metro North. But it wasn’t unusual for him to drive into the city. He was fairly sure his wife wouldn’t raise an eyebrow if he left early. What a day. A clear crisp leaves-not-yet-turning Tuesday, September 11.
2001 was going to be his Space Odyssey. The year he broke the bank on his own. He glanced at his Rolex Submariner. It was just going on 7 a.m.
He felt lucid and big—except for the remnants of a dream. There’d been some kind of catastrophe. He couldn’t get a fix on it. All he remembered was the image of a Montblanc pen slicing through the air like a knife into a wall. He didn’t put much stock in dreams though. He preferred real stocks. Soon he’d have Sophie’s smooth legs wrapped around him, or have her bent over on that orthop
edic king mattress, her brightly painted fingernails peeling back those voluptuous cheeks, so he could see everything.
She met him at the door in an aqua nightie with a plate of warm, moist sticky date muffins. He’d never felt so alive. The fall air was electric, her thighs warm and strong. Everything went to plan. She ooo-ed and ahh-ed over the silky underwear. The sex was epic—and he got it up again for an even wilder second go. This was what he wanted—a double-jointed tango Viking lover—not some cold fish L.L.Bean snow queen sitting on a graveyard of money. He felt drunk with confidence . . . until his Nokia squeaked.
It was his wife. He let it ring through to the message bank. Just seeing that number come up right then made him queasy. He squeezed Sophie’s Pilates-firm breasts. The phone rang again. Another message dinged a moment later.
“Popular fella,” Sophie smirked. “Is it the other chick on the side?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Uh-oh. Is it the office or Sarge?”
Sophie called his wife Sarge, which usually struck him funny. He felt a prickle of irritation this time. What in hell did his wife want? After the Marshal Claver shakedown, he could get paranoid very quickly. He was particularly peeved because although he’d had an intense ejaculation the second round, he was still turgid. If Sophie polished the knob, he thought there might’ve been a possible shot at another erection—and that would’ve meant some anal penetration, which he prized more than an option bargain.
The phone rang once more—and then once more. Christ, he thought. Sophie moved to go down on him. Then a text message leapt up like a marquee . . . URGENT CALL NOW . . .
Sophie leaned up and rolled her eyes. “Maybe Sarge is finally on to you.”
She gave his penis a final grope and rose to head to the bathroom. He heard the shower come on. OK, he thought, here we go. He pushed the Call Back button.
“Hello, hun.”
“Paul! Are you all right?” His wife sounded very manic.
“What? Sure,” he said, propping himself up in the bed. With any luck, it was something silly like the garage door not opening.
“Jesus! Where are you?”
Maybe Luke had been hurt at school.
“What, do you mean? I’m at the office,” he answered.
“Paul!”
“What is wrong?” He’d never heard her sound so cranked up. In the bathroom the shower water poured down over Sophie’s luscious body. Was she singing?
“Where ARE you?” his wife cried.
Hmm, there was something else the matter. He could feel it. He had to stay cool.
“I’m just going into a meeting. It’s the Hong Kong deal. Remember?”
“PAUL!”
“Stop shouting. Are you okay?”
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“I just told you. Sheesh. Take a Valium. Try to relax.”
“RELAX??”
“Yeah. What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“WRONG? Jesus Christ, you goddamn liar! Turn on the damn TV! I’m sure she has a TV—whoever the fuck she is!”
“What are you talking about? You sound insane.”
“INSANE? I’ve been shitting myself that you were dead!”
“Why would I—be dead?”
“TURN ON A DAMN TV! AND DON’T YOU EVER COME BACK TO THIS HOUSE, YOU LYING PIECE OF CRAP!”
The remote for the bedroom TV was on the nightstand on his side. He clicked to CNN and swooned with a surge of dread and disbelief.
THE UNITED STATES IS UNDER TERRORIST ATTACK. TWO HIJACKED PLANES HAVE COLLIDED WITH THE NORTH AND SOUTH TOWERS OF THE WORLD TRADE CENTER.
Over and over again, he watched the jets slash into the very building and the very section of the South Tower where he worked. ICONS OF AMERICAN POWER UNDER THREAT? He could’ve been sitting at his desk, or giving a presentation in one of the conference rooms. His job, his colleagues, his livelihood . . .
He couldn’t process it—couldn’t believe the stunned faces in the streets below. The World Trade Towers were on fire, ghastly streams of black smoke trailing out over Lower Manhattan.
WE ARE GETTING REPORTS FROM GROUND LEVEL OF BODIES FALLING . . .
He almost vomited some sticky date muffin. He had to get home. Had to explain to his wife. No wonder she thought he was dead. The entire sky had fallen. What was going to happen next? He dragged on his clothes and tried to brush his hair. “I have to leave!” he hollered at Sophie. He couldn’t tell if she replied, “Figured that!” or not. The water was still running. Maybe she’d just wash away. Everything had gone topsy-turvy. She’d see for herself what was up. He could call later. His marriage was on the line. His wife . . . his life . . .
Outside he thought he could see a plume of dark smoke in the distance, and he imagined he could smell the wreckage on the wind. Once in the car, the scene was nearer and clearer. Crystal deadly clear. The streets he knew. Hell, the hallways. The faces. Limbs. The hallways turned to hell—or detonated into nothingness. Holy shit, America under attack. He could barely keep the Spyder on the road. He had to get home.
Crisis management mode. His wife would be on the phone to a divorce lawyer at that very minute. Bells ringing, sirens wailing. There’d be knick-knacks thrown at him. Jagged tiles of ceiling insulation, exploding fluorescent lights. She’d have already frozen the joint accounts. Billowing ash and concrete rubble. The timeshare in the Bahamas would be out of the question. Collapsing girders, suffocating pleas. She’d find out about Sophie’s place. Black clouds and flying bolts. The country club membership would be revoked. Mangled bodies, stampedes of burning secretaries. He might never step into the temperature-controlled mahogany crafted wine cellar again. Ralph and Jenny were probably blown to bits in the boardroom.
The radio kept droning . . .
LOWER MANHATTAN IS IN A STATE OF TOTAL CHAOS . . . IT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED THAT AT 8:46 AM A BOEING 767, AMERICAN FLIGHT 11, FLEW INTO THE NORTH TOWER. MINUTES LATER AT 9:03 AM, A SECOND AIRCRAFT, ANOTHER BOEING 767, UNITED AIRLINES FLIGHT 175, STRUCK THE SOUTH TOWER AT FULL SPEED.
He couldn’t stop thinking that if he hadn’t skipped out on work for his dalliance with Sophie, he might well have been blasted to smithereens. Instant death. Perhaps many people in his office were gone—never knowing what hit them. Who knows how many others were trapped in a nightmare of glass, steel, cement, and ravaging heat? The streets seemed weirdly empty as he wheeled the Maserati back to face the wrath of his wife. How ironic that his marriage might be destroyed on the same morning as New York City lay under siege.
When he got to Deep Valley Road, he was taken aback to see small American flags planted all along the sides of the road. How odd. Had the whole world gone mad?
THE FRONT GATE OPENS TO A COBBLESTONE DRIVEWAY WHERE BEAUTIFUL GARDENS WELCOME YOU.
Or maybe not.
He swerved in hard to his drive, but the impressive iron gate didn’t open. Damn her, she’d already changed the code? Nothing felt very welcoming. In fact, the whole entryway seemed subtly different, as if the flowerbeds and front garden area had been replanted overnight. God, there were so many things he hadn’t paid enough attention to.
He had to straggle over the fence like a common thief. His own house.
His wife’s SUV was nowhere in sight, and in the garage he spied a mirror-black older Bentley, which seemed very unwelcoming indeed. He was only a little surprised when he found his key didn’t open the front door. That woman must be really pissed off, he thought. Like some Jehovah’s Witness, he rang the bell.
It was a full agonizing minute before the locks snapped back and a modestly uniformed black maid of about forty opened the cherry wood door. In a Caribbean accent she said, “Sir? What can I do for you?”
“Who are you?” he barked.
The woman took a step back, instinctively clutching the door—but she didn’t seem to lose her poise.
“Sir? Do you need help?”
He felt short of breath. They didn’t have a black maid. They had Clara, a
s Irish as you could get. Clara O’Sheay. His wife could’ve changed the gate code some way, just to goad him—but she couldn’t have gotten rid of Clara and hired someone else so fast.
“I want to see the lady of the house!”
“Sir?”
“This is a damn emergency!”
The black woman ran her eyes over his attire, her eyes flickering with fear and indecision. Then she said, “Wait a moment. I’ll get Ms. Beatty.” She closed and deadlocked the door.
Ms. Beatty? Who in the hell was that? He tried desperately to get his anger under control. His anxiety. Bewilderment.
A figure blurred through warbled glass panel beside the door. A second or two later the locks clicked again, the door opened, and a severe-looking, matronly, gray-haired woman appeared before him, with a quizzical yet somehow flat expression.
“May I help you?” she as much demanded as asked. “I believe you mentioned something about an emergency?”
“I . . .”
He swallowed hard, trying to regain his voice—distracted by the large brooch in the vague shape of a seahorse pinned to the lapel of the woman’s slate-blue suit jacket. It seemed curiously familiar. He thought again of the Montblanc pen sailing through the air in his dream. A rush of acid churned in his stomach. Who was this damn woman?
“I’m looking for . . .”
His wife’s first name utterly slipped his mind.
Flashpoint.
Goddamnit! He thought his head was going to explode.
“I want to explain . . .”
The air on fire . . . smoke filling the room like time . . . panes shattering. Screams.
He was about to really lose his temper, but a jabbing ache in his bowels made him pause.
“I’ve seen you before,” the woman said, and he didn’t like the way she said it. It reminded him of how his mother had often spoken to him. For some reason, he couldn’t remember what had happened to his mother.
