Kevin's Corner: Short Story: Bars Of The Heart

For those who missed my reading at Noir At the Bar at the Wild Detectives last month, “Bars Of The Heart” was my reading selection. This story was inspired by our plane flight home when Sandi and I came back from our wedding in June 1985. While we made it back safely, a few weeks later Delta 191 was not so lucky in eerily similar circumstances. The crash ultimately killed 137 people. While the crash was clearly horrible for those onboard the aircraft, it struck me how bad it must be for those loved ones at home who had no idea whether or not somebody they cared about had survived. That idea became the genesis of this story, which appeared in the July 1996 edition of the print magazine Show And Tell.

BARS OF THE HEART

The dryer buzzed but the woman on the couch didn’t move. The phone rang for a minute and then stopped. In the silence, Clara stared at the television. The images kept coming. She turned off the lamp. After all, it was important not to waste electricity.

The brightness of the television lit the stark room. This wasn’t a home; this was a prison. Bars of the soul, just as real as those in Huntsville. The images penetrated every corner of the room. They washed over the cracked flooring, broken plaster, and across the torn and sagging couch. They rose and drowned her in a flood of emotions. Rage, pain, fear and anger came, stayed awhile, and left. Now she was numb, but the images kept coming. There was no respite from the onslaught on the television.

The images seemed unreal. The surreal effect gave a sense of twisted voyeurism as the camera spanned the site. Fire, smoke, and pieces of debris were spread as far as the camera could see. Lights from the emergency vehicles strobed through the smoke and dust. Occasionally a figure would appear in the dust and smoke then disappear into the mouth of Hell.

Clara felt like she was falling into the images and shook her head to clear it.

Death and destruction live in your living room. There is nothing else like it. For this day at least, the usual weird talk shows were off the air. However, she knew this scene would be beaten to death all day and into the night.

She occasionally noticed the breathless, disembodied voice of the news anchor describing the scene. She could tell the anchor loved it when she reported once again that there were no survivors.

Everyone was gone-her own husband, everybody. Yet she felt nothing. She thought she should feel something. All those people were gone and everything else just kept going right on.

You should at least feel their spirit or essence move on, she thought. Here my own husband is gone and I feel nothing.

Well, that wasn’t quite true; there was at least one emotion coming through, Clara thought, I feel relieved. It’s all over, but it’s a beginning.

With nothing new to report, the anchor was forced to repeat the same tired information over and over. Clara felt her muscles ache from sitting in one position on the edge of the couch. She shifted and something crunched as she leaned back. She pulled a newspaper from under her.

Ads for Christmas sales sailed across the floor. It was the first week in November-temperatures in the mid-eighties- and they were pushing Christmas. She shook her head at the futility of it all.

People were dead, families destroyed, and tomorrow everyone else would go right on with their self-centered lives. A year from now, the anniversary specials would run and that would be it. Television brought the images into homes with live remotes. They were replaced just as quickly with new images of death and destruction. After all, there was a whole globe of people doing unbelievably sick, twisted things to each other for some reason or another.

Tomorrow all of this would be forgotten in favor of the DISASTER OF THE MOMENT, unless someone could figure out a local angle to exploit. In this case, it will be easy, so we all can look forward to weeks of coverage, she thought. Then, of course, there was always that trial in L.A. if there wasn’t a calamity of the day to watch.

Clara hit the mute button but she couldn’t turn it off. This would be incredible for the ratings. The local television stations couldn’t have asked for a better event for sweeps if they had ordered it up themselves. Nothing like death and carnage to pique viewer interest.

She shook her head in disgust. She could imagine the promos that would run for weeks. “When disaster struck Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, we were there LIVE at the scene. Stay tuned to the channel that was first with live reports and stories from the heroic rescuers.” Etc., etc.

Clara punched the remote. She was just as bad as everyone else; she couldn’t turn it off the television either. But she had to know for sure. Her thoughts strayed to the insurance money. Hopefully her dear departed hubby had maintained that better than his half of the marriage. Yes, she would miss him, but she was looking forward to weeks in the sun on some no-name island with some young thing. She’d served her time and payment was definitely due. No matter how much, it was small compared to what she put up with for twenty years. Her grip on reality slipped again as she relived different parts of her long marriage. The prescribed drugs weren’t helping much these days.

She shuddered and shifted on the threadbare couch. Momma never said it would be like this, she thought as she groped for the remote. It had slipped through a bare spot and was snared in a spring. Clara pulled it free and moved a towel to plug the hole. She adjusted everything to be as comfortable as possible and settled back.

She skipped a channel, then flipped back. In their quest for the most graphic images, this station had gotten past the yellow police barricades to the smoldering tail section. It appeared that the aircraft had broken in two upon impact. The fuselage split open behind the wings and spun away. It was crushed and on fire in a sea of white foam. It was apparent that the fire was still winning. Flames licked and flashed among pieces of black scorched metal. Smoke rolled and flattened out, blocking the fuselage from view.

The camera swung around. The rest of the aircraft was visible. Yards away from the broken fuselage, the tail sat like a discarded child’s toy, alone in the mud. Scorch marks were visible, but it looked like the impact had done the most damage. Tufts of white foam were slowly disappearing into the grass. A decapitated body was strapped firmly to the seat. She idly wondered where the head rolled to in the wreckage.

Firefighters jumped into the tail. As the camera zoomed in, it picked up movement in the wreckage. Clara increased the volume as drifting smoke obscured the image. “We have a survivor, it appears. Rescue personnel are extricating him from the aircraft.”

As the smoke cleared, the camera zeroed in on the survivor. He was outside the tail, sitting in the mud. Blood streamed from a gash on his head as he got to his feet. Someone wrapped a blanket around him. Paramedics worked on him while also trying to get him to sit back down like he should. Then he turned and looked straight at the camera.

“Oh, my GOD!” Clara screamed. She clutched her left hand to her chest feeling the wedding ring dig into her. Mixed emotions flooded through her. Guilt over thinking about a possible brighter future without him was slowly replaced with a sense of relief and joy. The mixing of emotions overwhelmed her. “He’s alive!” She yelled at the ceiling, “Thank you, God. Thank you!”

The paramedics continued to work on her husband of twenty years. Clara grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes. She smiled softly to herself as her husband stood in the wreckage. Sure there were rough times, like his affair, but it was going to work out. He’d promised not to stray again and she believed him. Now they really had a chance at starting over. She had to find out to what hospital they were taking him. She was confused, but everything was going to work out.

She pulled her shoes on as the television kept blaring. She stood and turned her back on the television as she looked for her keys. “We have a second survivor. It appears to be a young woman. Rescue personnel are pulling her out now. She is conscious and appears to be uninjured.”

Clara’s stomach rolled and the keys fell to the floor with a clatter. She screamed out, “No, God. Please, no!” She sank onto the couch. My life is over, she thought as she watched her husband kiss his mistress.

The voice of the telegenic reporter washed over her still body. “In an incredible twist of fate, we have two survivors from the destroyed aircraft. Mike and Sarah, who have been in a long-term relationship, were sitting in adjoining seats as the aircraft went down. Mike proposed to her as the aircraft plummeted, and we are pleased to report that Sarah accepted. The date has not been set, but the couple plans a long honeymoon in the Caribbean. We will keep you informed as events warrant.”

Clara smashed the “off” button on the remote before flinging it away from her. Clear in purpose, she moved over to the desk. She eased a drawer open and pulled out a heavy wooden box whose lid opened easily to reveal a polished black pistol. The gun was her father’s when he was on the force. The last wedding present would finally be put to use. She remembered him saying he wanted her to have it because “you just never know when you might need it.”

She picked it up. A plan began to form in her mind. Slowly, her finger tightened on the trigger. “After all, “she said aloud in her best television anchor voice, “there were no survivors.”