Thomas O`Callaghan - The Screaming Room

And hadn’t John Driscoll discovered in Colette the magical Golden Fleece, the object of his heart’s desire? Hadn’t he been an urban Ulysses, seeking that other, the woman he would love forever? And hadn’t their love produced a kindhearted child, Nicole? Sadly, though, he had gained the fleece only to see it wrenched from him by a driver plastered on Cuervo Gold.

Driscoll was alone in his new residence, the Brooklyn Heights co-op. He was feeling morose, contemplating the inscription on the back of the watch, running his thumb along the etching like someone reading Braille.

He sat at the dinner table, set for one, and filled his glass with De la Morandiere Chardonnay, her favorite wine.

She was afraid of thunderstorms! The thought raced to his consciousness. He recalled seeing a PBS special on the life of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady, suffered from the same dread of thunder. The president, it is said, was known to leave the affairs of state and hurry home at the first sighting of a storm so he could comfort his wife. Driscoll smiled, remembering cutting short his own shifts and hurrying to Colette’s side when the heat of the day met the cool of the night, producing ferocious late-summer downpours.

“John, they frighten me so,” she would murmur.

It became his unspoken vow. To keep her safe from the storm…safe from the darkness…and safe from the perils of life itself.

Driscoll took another sip of Chardonnay, placed the glass on the table, and headed for the stove, where he would prepare the evening meal: roasted chicken breast with Gruyere and mushrooms. Without warning, a bolt of lightning electrified the sky over Brooklyn Heights, illuminating the small kitchenette in which Driscoll stood, igniting yet another remembrance.

Colette and he had been strolling the Toliver’s Point shoreline when the first rumblings of a summer thunderstorm intruded on their reverie. Colette clutched Driscoll’s hands and dragged him from the beach as luminous clouds began to billow. They headed for home. As soon as they reached the bungalow, Colette rushed to the bedroom, where she sought shelter under a comforter.

After the squall passed, she opened her eyes and found herself wrapped in Driscoll’s arms.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Just tell me.”

“You already know.”

An impish smile crept across Colette’s face.

“What?” he frowned.

“It’s time for some sweetness.”

Driscoll rummaged through his pockets and produced a roll of butterscotch Life Savers.

“Silly man,” she said.

“Some gals are never happy.”

“Just tell me.”

“Je t’aime,” he whispered. “Are you happy now?”

“‘Je t’aime a la folie,’ you’re supposed to say. That means you love me madly.”

“That’s right. I do love you madly.”

“And I…you,” she said.

“Then we’d better do something about it.”

“Let’s get married,” she gushed, her face looking like that of a schoolgirl.

“But we’re already married.”

“Let’s do it again! We can have a second honeymoon!”

“Okay. Where would you like to go?”

“You pick.”

“I have a place in mind,” he said. “You’ll love it.”

“Tahiti?”

“Arles.”

“Why there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to see what Van Gogh saw?”

“What a fabulous idea! I can pack up my easel and off we’ll go. When are we going?”

“You pick the date.”

“How about…my birthday?”

“Perfect.”

“Is this for real?”

“Sure it is.”

All talk ceased. Eyes danced. Hands intertwined. Driscoll leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her neck.

“What say we start the honeymoon now?” she murmured.

“Splendid idea,” he whispered.

Margaret Aligante had put her calls in to Crime Scene and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. She was sure the forensic boys would do their part but had gotten a “not in our neck of the woods” response from a John Nashota at the BIA. She was fatigued. She had spent the better part of the past twelve hours trying to locate Phyllis Newburger. If truth be known, she hadn’t spent much time in the labyrinth that was the NYPD database. This Italian American cop was superstitious, and looking for her childhood psychotherapist in the official archives made her feel as though she’d be inviting someone to take a peek over her shoulder. Margaret, the resourceful woman that she was, chose to cloak herself in the anonymity of the Internet.

Anxiety lay behind her search. And for this tough cop, anxiety took on but one form: men. More precisely, the prospect of a romantic relationship with one. Sure she carried a gun, was proficient in the martial arts of aikido and tae kwon do, and took nonsense from no one. Still, none of these attributes protected her from the pure dread she felt at the mere notion of getting serious with a man. And despite her ever glowing internal red light, Margaret knew she was headed for such a relationship with John Driscoll, once again her boss. They were sure to pick up where they had left off. But now the man was single. Jesus H. Christ! Single! Panic attacks, which she thought she had outgrown, were burgeoning. She knew her only remedy was to seek professional help. But the only psychotherapeutic help she had ever received was provided to her as an adolescent by Phyllis Newburger, who helped her face her childhood demons and withstand their threat. Margaret knew some of those same demons had been awakened, prompting her current feeling of angst. She needed to see the Newburger woman. In her mind, at least, there was no one else to turn to.

Using Google, she happened upon Newburger’s name in affiliation with a Saint Finbar’s Foundling, in New Rochelle. The Web site indicated that she was the director of placement services, but the article, which extolled and praised the foundling’s humanitarian efforts, was eight years old. And so, when she called Saint Finbar’s, she was disappointed but not surprised to hear that Newburger had moved on. Where, they didn’t know or weren’t saying. She thanked the staff member for her kindness and continued her Web search, seeking out associations that might have an address for the woman.

One such organization was the New York chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. A local number was featured, but when she called, a clerk explained that she had gotten a no-hit when searching for any Phyllis Newburger in their database. Good God! thought Margaret. It had been over twenty years. Could the woman be dead?

Margaret ventured on. Her search at Anywho. com produced a long list of Phyllis and P. Newburgers, with both local and long-distance phone numbers. She printed a copy of the listings and put it aside. She would cold-call only as a last resort.

As daylight faded in her small study, the translucent surface of her desktop’s monitor grew brighter and soon became the only light in the room. Margaret pushed her roll-away chair back from the desk and rubbed her eyes. It was then, in the twilight, always in the twilight, that her past caught up with her.

Dusk was imminent. Time to get out of sight; make herself disappear. Go to that place. That place of safe harbor, if only in her mind. But as twelve-year-old Margaret rolled herself into a ball and squeezed herself into the narrow cubbyhole, she could still hear the footfalls outside her bedroom door. She prayed to Saint Rita he’d pass.

Some nights he did. Some nights he didn’t.

And on those nights. On those Godforsaken nights, when the Lord was asleep and the saints were at play, the door would creak open and in he’d walk.

“Margaret?”

His tone was always the same. One of expectancy.