The Fade

Copyright © 2007 by Darren Smith

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-48079-1 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-60178-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

CHAPTER 68

CHAPTER 69

CHAPTER 70

CHAPTER 71

CHAPTER 1

An icy wind bit into my face as I slowly emerged from the subway. It froze the day’s growth to the root, stinging the follicles in my cheeks and chin. Ollie was already a few yards ahead, I could hear her footsteps crunching into the snow, muffling the clicks her shoes would ordinarily make on paving stones. For all her five years she had worn metal heeltaps. Olivia and I had agreed on that before she was born. It was my safety net. I needed help, especially when playing in the city and monitoring the click-click-click of my daughter as she skipped up to storefronts, eyes wide, nose pressed to the glass, took an edge off my fears.

Come on, Daddy. You’re so slow. Her small hand was suddenly in mine as I rested for a second against the subway entrance. Fifty Seventh Street station, southern exits, all the way down by Radio City. Midtown. Hotels and horseshit left behind rose covered carriages by Central Park.

Her angora wool mitten was wet in my warm palm. I could feel the water seeping into a psychic’s haven, filling my life line, my money line, racing along my love line like an aqueduct. She had been running a hand along icy railings or making snowballs. I had told her not to, the snow was filthy in town but she was five and wanted to play in the snow, so what could I do?

Where are we now? I switched hands with her, moving her to the inside, away from the curb, from the onrushing yellow cabs and three feet of salted, brown slush that ruins so many shoes come winter. Can you see the street signs? We swung our arms in the hand hold and I could feel her slowing to look up.

Av-en-ue of, she had learned to read phonetically, as is the way in schools nowadays, the, in bed she would read her books, colorful stories, following each sentence with a tiny finger, annunciating each syllable in turn in her proper little Connecticut accent, America.

Americas, honey. I corrected her. She had to learn. I did not want her to get lazy and stop reading just because she thought she recognized the word.

Americas. Yes. Avenue of the Americas. She was confident in her second reading.

Good girl. I squeezed her hand a little. She would not have come across the word too often in her Kindergarten readers. She deserved praise.

So we were on Sixth, the Avenue of the Americas, heading east toward Rockefeller Plaza. The smell of Christmas was in the air. Roasted nuts, perfume sprayed onto wrists to decide if it was palatable and paper. I know it sounds odd me saying that, but I could smell thousands of sheets of wrapping paper, of varying qualities, reams of crêpe paper, hundreds upon hundreds of store bags complete with string handles.

I knew it would be a mob scene, three days before Christmas Eve, thousands of people waiting ‘til the last minute, but I had made a promise and I always keep my promises. Ollie’s hamster had been in a bad way, foam coming from its nose, eyes swollen and closed with discharge. Cat scratches can do that. Infection spreads easily. Goodness knows what the little monsters have under their claws. The vet had suggested putting Mr. Pip to sleep immediately. I felt Ollie’s body buckle in my hug when she heard this. The trip into the city was to pacify her. It was all I could think of at the time.

Would you like to see the biggest and most beautiful Christmas tree in the world, Ollie? I had lowered my tone, making it as soothing as possible, giving her my ‘calm down, my love’ voice.

She sniffed a negative response and shook her head in an over-exaggerated gesture, her curls, almost ringlets, hitting my stomach. I ran my fingers through them and pulled her closer into my body.

We could see the tree, the fairy lights and decorations. We can do whatever you like.

Can we see Mommy?

I paused to swallow, catching the moment and a million reflections just under my Adam’s apple, before exhaling and letting her out of my embrace.

Of course we can, my darling, we can see Mommy.

And so it was agreed, we would take the excursion the next day as Mr. Pip was let go, drifting slowly into a comfortable sleep, free of pain and discomfort before being incinerated with the veterinarian’s gloves and the tissues that had wiped away my daughter’s tears.

As we walked hand in hand I sensed the crowd growing increasingly dense with every pace closer to our goal. It was as if we were wading through bodies. Our stride had to be checked again and again as the dumb and the inconsiderate crossed our path, or stopped to gawk at decorated store fronts.

Olivia, Ollie’s mother, hated that. When hanging out or shopping we would walk arm in arm down Ninth Avenue or around SoHo before Ollie was born. We would have brunch or look to pick something up for the tiny apartment we shared. The plebian band would stop dead in front of us and she would almost lose control. I would receive four clear varnished fingernails in the side of my hand, or a strangulating grip on my arm.

Assholes, she would sigh then pull a face, eyes crossed. Oh! Something shiny. She would grab at the invisible set of car keys shaken above her head, a baby reaching for a brightly colored mobile above its crib, kitten pawing at a cotton reel at the end of a thread, only cuter, more alive, beautiful and amazing.

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Excitement built with each address.

Yes, honey?

Fiftieth Street was opening into Rockefeller Plaza. The wind, trapped by the surrounding skyscrapers, circled us, swirling random snowflakes around and up into the frozen sky. The air seemed crisper than normal, clean, as if a good lungful could cleanse a lifetime of cigarettes and pollution.

Nearly there. Nearly there. She tried to pull me but I leant back in my walking stance. I did not want us to slip and fall. They are pretty good in Manhattan when it comes to salting the sidewalks but under our feet sat the shiny new, salmon colored paving stones of the Plaza. The salt had turned the snow to slush, mixed by a million feet and created a film as dangerous as ice. Walking in sneakers, let alone running in shoes would, have been suicidal.

Our matching snow boots—purple, brown and waterproof—were another cautionary measure I insisted upon. Even to and from Ollie’s prep school I made her wear them. Sure, they were not school uniform, but Mrs. Hayden-Flynn, the headmistress, would not argue with me. No one argued with me. Not anymore.

Don’t pull, Olivia, please. My request became moot by the time I finished asking for restraint as we had arrived at our destination—the northern edge of Rockefeller Plaza, between Fifth and Sixth, above the ice skating rink and facing the glowing hundred foot Christmas tree.

I heard my daughter exhale. It made a tear collect in the corner of my eye. It was all the exclamation of joy I needed, accompanied by silent awe as she stared wide eyed and open mouthed at the truest symbol of the season I could think of.

It’s so bea-utiful, she whispered close to me, little hands gripping at my arms as I wrapped her in a hug. She pushed back into my body as I stood behind the crowd and I breathed out a happy sigh. Where did they find such a lovely tree? She whispered again. She did this a lot, especially at family get-togethers, and parent-teacher meetings. She was an inquisitive child, a trait she got from her mother, a thirst for knowledge. But she was also painfully shy, which she got from my side of the family. She did not like to cause a commotion by asking the forum, the throng. Instead she would whisper barely audible questions to me, the answers to which I would whisper back in return.

Tree farmers from all over America write to the Rockefeller Plaza offering a tree for free. I whispered. It’s a big honor to have your tree here. Millions of people will come to see it. I hugged her close and lifted her up, above the heads of those in front of us so she could have a better view. A group of representatives from Rockefeller Plaza then go and see all the tree farms to make it fair. Then they decide who has the best trees and pick one. The farmer whom they choose gives the tree to the people of New York for here. I gestured with my free hand.

Cool. She mimicked me. I said the word a lot, dragging it out like the surfer dude my East Coast upbringing would never let me be.

She then snuggled into my neck. Her skin was the softest I’d ever felt, softer even than her mother’s, softer than the swollen pregnant belly I oiled daily for months on end as we waited for the stork’s arrival. My daughter wore no perfume; I wouldn’t allow it, not at five years old. Instead she had a natural scent. That newborn baby smell, milk and purity twinned with delicate soap.

I love you, Daddy. She hugged me around my neck and I closed my eyes to enjoy the moment. I loved our little pauses, our precious time, moments of love.

I love you too, honey. I enjoyed the hug and felt her relax, safe in my arms. But then just as so many children grow up and so much innocence is lost, the moment was over. She pulled away, out of the embrace, and asked the question I’d been dreading all day.

So can we go see mommy now?

CHAPTER 2

A change of pace. Carmichael had said, reclining into the cushy leather chair his position granted him. He had looked up from the company quarterly report only to beckon me in through the glass walls of his office.

A change of scenery. The coldest of grey eyes scanned the words of the CEO, the COO, the CIO, the more recognizable members of the board, even the guest commentary from the chairman, Anders Sanderson, a giant, a legend of a man, who started our brokerage firm in San Francisco thirty years before and now, in his non-executive position at the head of the board, was only wheeled out at the times cheery rhetoric was needed.

New challenges. This particular report was haunted by a failed and costly takeover; the faltering market conditions adding a corrosive subtext.

He then paused, not to look at me, a loyal employee since college, but instead to unlock and slide open a desk drawer. He looked in and touched each of a dozen highlighter pens that were neatly lined up. These were not the standard kind either, buried in the stationary cupboard among the recycled folders and empty boxes of cheap roller balls; these were something special, right out of an executive magazine: the type of publication full of golf tees with company logos stamped on them, polo shirts with your initials and other such proclamations of self-importance.

I could see him poring over the magazine in his Sausalito den, sticking colored tabs on page edges, deciding where the departmental stationary budget should be misspent. I could see him handing the wish list to his secretary and telling her to keep it on the QT.

A whole new career. He selected a blue highlighter, darker than the cyan sticks we had, and slid the drawer a fraction from closure. Then he started making neat sweeps of color through words and over charts and graphs, facts and figures he believed to be key.

There will be room for growth for young men with drive, such as yourself The words I felt most important in the report, at least to me, talked of relocation. Those, I would have highlighted.

And the New York pussy, his pep talk was now moving into the area of clear fiction, they-love-us-West-Coast-guys. With each syllable a line was enthusiastically colored.

But, Mr. Carmichael, I’m from Westport. I spoke for the first time and clearly out of turn, causing the steely eyes to leave the report and train on me, one eyebrow raised in surprise. Connecticut.

And then what? Otto and I were at the water cooler later that day. It was empty as always and I, as ever, found myself changing the bottle.

He lowered his eyebrow, you know, the Roger Moore thing, and continued highlighting the damned report.

That it?

Pretty much.

That, as it happened, wasn’t it, pretty much or not. Carmichael had lowered the eyebrow he raised in anger—how dare I speak out of turn?—and had continued highlighting.

Not married, are you, Bryce? His eyelids flickered, betraying a glance at my ring finger before asking.

No, sir, but I do have a girlfriend. I had never been a singleton. I had dated throughout high school, lived with two of my college girlfriends and had even been engaged. Once. Briefly. The idea of lifelong commitment brought full frontal ended that pairing pretty soon after I bought the ring. Laura.

Laura and I had met in the city. We hit it off sexually at first, then after dinners, trips, and hanging out drinking, we filled in the gaps. After the lease on my Sunset apartment came to an end I moved into her Pacific Heights condo. We lived together for a year, I had worked at Sanderson’s for ten years by then.

We only relocate spouses, Bryce, just so you know. His tone smacked of dismissal. Outside of holy matrimony love fell short of an acceptable level. Just so you know.

Cunt! Otto uttered the foul exclamation for me. We were at the Royal Exchange, an after-work drinking hole close to our offices. Half the sales desk were there, drowning their sorrows, mulling their options. Most looked over when my dear friend slammed a fist into the bar, two nodded after guessing our conversation, one even raised a pint as a salute. I didn’t know the guy but recognized him from my floor. I nodded back and leant closer to Otto.

What about Laura?

Man, you’re pretty fucked. Otto was half-Austrian, half-Hawaiian. It made for an interesting mixture, like Wiener schnitzel and pineapple, Kalua pig and sauerkraut. He could be ruthlessly efficient, punctual, like clockwork, but that just wasn’t him. He loved his friends, and he loved his family, so work could go hang.

You don’t think I know that? I sipped my consolation pint of Guinness. What are you going to do?

I haven’t been called in yet.

But when you are?

When i am … He stood from his stool, pint glass in hand. And when those mother-fuckers call me in, he raised his voice, loudly orating to his sanderson’s audience, i say fuck them! He raised his glass, spilling a little as he saluted the fray. Fuck carmichael! Fuck sanderson’s! And fuck new york fucking city!

CHAPTER 3

When Ollie was born, I could not bring myself to hold her. She was too precious, too delicate, not made of anything robust enough to permit my big bear paws on her. Her skin was paper thin; a membrane only, translucent. I thought my touch would make her disintegrate, disappear from existence like a forgotten version of the dream she was, lost in the throes of morning.

For the early months of her life, as she slept in her clear plastic box, all I could do was blindly stare at her. She was a work of art displayed in a modernist gallery, surrounded at visiting times and seen as magical wonderment by enthusiastic onlookers. Still life yet full of life. And still I did not want to pick her up when, finally, she was allowed to be passed from clucking family member to clucking family member.

But when I did finally have her in my arms, that first time, there was not a dry eye in the house. I was a starving lotto winner catching sight of his jackpot and diving head-first into it. That first hug, my baby girl in my arms wrapped in a crocheted shawl and placed lovingly there, was worth all the riches in the world.

From that moment on, aware suddenly of her physicality, I picked her up whenever I could to show affection. We held hands constantly. When she was ill or had a cold, she would sleep with me, in my bed, sometimes on me as I lay flat on my front, her little arms stretching across my back as her little nose sniffled and wheezed in my ear.

Walking away from Rockefeller Plaza and the wonderful Christmas tree, our hearts filled with festive cheer, I held her close, her hand in mine, and I wasn’t planning on letting go.

Does Santa put gifts under the tree for all the little children?

For all the orphans in New York? Yes, that’s right. I smiled as I answered the whispered question, happy in my fabrication.

Do my old toys go there?

I don’t like waste, and Olivia hated it. So, given the volume of wrapped treasures under the tree with her name on the tag, Ollie was taught to be generous. She donated much of the prior year’s haul to a local orphanage, keeping her brightly painted toy chest filled to a comfortable yet acceptable level. It was a sweet exercise; she would lay out her dolls in a row and pick her favorites before giving the rest away. She was happy to do so too. It was as if she was handing them to the children herself. She likes to give. She gets that from me.

No, they’re taken to the All Saints Orphanage by Santa so the lil’ children can have them at the end of their beds come Christmas morning.

What…? Her next question and our stride were checked by a large couple, their breathing heavy, who’d spent time near something festively scented. Maybe they had bought such delights to fumigate their home, to remove cooking smells or the stench of the cat tray, replacing them instead with the aroma of mulling spices, cinnamon, cloves and orange, all available at the lighting of a wick or the pressing of a nozzle.

Gifts: I remember Olivia wanting a poncho. She always wanted knitwear come winter but never had the presence of mind to put it on the list she gave me in September. She was so reactionary. I loved it.

A present is for life—not just for Christmas. I would tell her. For which she would punch me on the arm.

I would slyly try to gain tidbits throughout the year, information that could be used. Clues to the killer gift, one she truly wanted. We would walk the park, arm in arm, bundled up in the previous year’s bounty. The wind would be biting, the leaves long since gone from the trees and trampled underfoot into mulch, the trees themselves no longer offering any protection from the elements. We would take long walks before bedtime to get the fresh air into our lungs, to tucker us out so we could sleep deeply and soundly; Olivia on her back, me on my front, our feet touching.

Now Ollie, Ollie would be spoiled by everyone. The best and the most popular, the rarest and even gifts wholly improper for a five year old start arriving at the house with weeks to go before Saint Nick’s descent down the chimney.

I would, of course, intercept them at the front door, taking them from smiling postal service workers or family members, eager to see my daughter’s reaction as they handed over the presents. I would rush them to the closet in my bedroom or, more recently, the attic and out of sight. Ollie was not allowed up there. She was not allowed to pull at the knotted rope in case it brought the wooden steps crashing down on her head. Even when I was up there, banging about, she was not permitted to join me. She would wait at the bottom of the steps, looking up, not allowed to ascend into the museum of broken dreams, to sift through the crated and boxed homage to lost love.

I remember one year, when Ollie was four, a box of kittens arrived in the big arms of Troy, Olivia’s first cousin. Maine Coons, little white bundles of joy, dotted with brown and black patches. How idiotic can one man be? Suffice to say that situation was dealt with and the meowing crate, air holes and all, did not make it to the attic to be hidden behind a box of photos, chest of dresses or any other grotesque joggers of memory.

Pingoos!

What honey?

We were crossing Fifth Avenue with an army of shoppers. Alexander the Great would have been proud of such a force, a thousand strong determined individuals, all single-minded in their goal—the invasion of Saks Fifth Avenue.

Our footing was a little precarious. I slid, gained control, and then slid again before Ollie called out. Daddy, watch out. Too late, I was shin deep in a mud slushy. The cold piercing my ankle as the dirty ice poured over the top of my boot.

Urgh! I exclaimed, hopping the last yard to the sidewalk, dancing over the icy pool at the side of the street.

You need a hand? My arm was taken, a voice at my left I did not recognize. I pulled away a little but not enough to offend. You okay? It was a woman’s voice; not loud, not brash, not New York. She chewed her words. Swallowed the vowels. Northern states, maybe Canadian.

No thank you, its okay, I stamped my foot, thank you very much though.

I reached low and out, searching for Ollie, the air around my fingers pushed and drawn by fast-paced shopping machines.

Here, Daddy. My forearm was taken, gripped my tiny familiar fingers.

Hey there, cutie. The female voice was still close by my side. I didn’t like it even though I recognized my slip into the slush could warrant some attention, as did my daughter. And what’s your name?

I felt Ollie change her grip, moving behind me, her hands now around the trunk of my left leg, avoiding the unwanted gaze of the stranger.

Hey, you hiding there?

When I was a child, growing up in a leafy Connecticut town, we had a Scottish terrier called George. He was a wonderful animal. Most of my childhood memories involve him: good times, vacations, throwing sticks into a lake for him to chase and my mother yelling for me to ‘stop’ because she didn’t want the mucky pup dirtying the car.

One Christmas I bought George a tartan collar. It seems cliched now, but at age ten it was perfect. It was George’s tree present. A stocking filler. In the Bryce family home we gave main presents over breakfast, sitting in the living room in pajamas. Tree presents, little gifts, inexpensive and sometimes more practical, were given throughout the day to top up the Christmas spirit if it started waning. The collar was the tartan of my mother’s great grandfather, a war hero from times when faded monochrome kept history. And upon it, hanging just below the buckle a brass, bone-shaped nametag announced to those who found my dog that this was George Bryce, a proud and noble beast.

As the tree gifts were distributed mid-afternoon, before a re-running of specials on television and movie premiers, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, a wizened mess of grey hair and cooking smells piped up.

You should never put a pet’s name on its tag. What if someone were to read it? There are sick people out there, Patrick, they would read George’s name and call him. He comes when you call him, right? I nodded solemnly, aware the whole family was watching the drama unfold, ashamed suddenly of my purchase. What if someone called him into the street when a car was coming? My brain pictured the scene, my dog mangled and twisted in death, tongue out, blood, brains and insides strewn across the asphalt. What if teenagers called him, tying fire-crackers to his tail? I could hear his anguished yelping and the laughing of the gang. I felt myself well up. What if .?

Miriam! My father stopped the mental onslaught and I was given a moment to breathe and choke back tears, wiping my face with a pajama sleeve.

It stayed with me, the imagery created by a fertile imagination, as if I had actually witnessed the horrendous events as described by the sour old woman. When people find things out about you such as your name, your address, your phone number, they have ammunition. They can cause harm. I have always been cautious, as a teen, as an adult, now. As the female voice asked for my daughter’s name I held fast and resisted the urge to show off the apple of my eye, like a prize, a nametag hanging from her charm bracelet, begging for abduction.

I’m sorry, ma’am. In one move I lifted Ollie into my arms and away from the voice. I’ve taught my daughter well. She won’t talk to strangers.

Very wise, came the voice. If that’s so, then please, could I ask you yours?

I hesitated, but puffed my chest out, manly and powerful, standing to my full six feet.

Patrick.

Well, Patrick, the reply was distant, the woman was walking away, continuing her shopping spree, calling over her shoulder as she headed south down Fifth Avenue, you have a beautiful daughter.

Thank you, i called after her, somewhere to my right. And now, my sweet, my love, my munchkin, i snuggled my face into ollie’s neck then smiled fully as she giggled, what’s this about penguins?

CHAPTER 4

Conversation topics can be avoided like potholes in the road. If you are astute you can successfully skirt around them with relative ease. If your counterpart is not aware of the problem in the first place you needn’t worry at all. Icebergs do not creep up on you from behind and pounce, you have to run into them for any damage to be done.

Laura was home before me as always. By the time the wake had ended at the Royal Exchange, the chairs stacked on wiped table tops, the draught taps hooded to signal that the night was over she had cooked, eaten, and cleared away a couscous salad and was curled up in one of my college sweaters on the couch, knees under her chin, engrossed in CNN. She did not look up as I walked in; hanging my coat by the door, but still she spoke.

Hi. The news report talked of flooding somewhere in the South, somewhere I did not care about.

Hey. I leant toward beaten rather than distraught in my tone. It would be the first hint I gave that something was wrong.

There’s salad in the fridge. She had not taken the bait so I pulled my tie off and headed to the bedroom.

Not hungry. I called back.

You go to Vesuvio? She referred to Kerouac’s bar close to the Transamerica Pyramid, another after-work haunt of the Sanderson‘s posse.

The Exchange. Drowning our sorrows. Hint number two steaming into view.

Oh. She was only intent on hearing the basics of the evening, skipping over the whole idea of a subtext. Dirt shrimp?

The dirt shrimp, as we called it, was an