Yesteryear
As Kristin Branwell walked through the door of the Willow Tree Lodge's ballroom, she braced herself for the ordeal that lay ahead. Although she loved her relatives, she hated having to attend large family gatherings, especially weddings. Well-meaning aunts, uncles and cousins were bound to inquire why, at thirty, she was still single. Inevitably, someone would say they knew of a "nice boy" who would be perfect for her and offer to arrange a meeting, at which point she would always resort to a tried-and-true response of claiming the demands of her job did not leave much time for dating.
The female members of her family, all of whom were married with children, did not comprehend Kristin's dedication to her career. They could not understand why an attractive young woman would want to waste her life writing boring articles for Yesteryear history magazine.
"Don't look so grim," her mother, Alberta, whispered as the three Branwells made their way across the ballroom to their assigned table. "You're not being fed to the lions."
The questions began as soon as they sat down.
"You're here with your parents?" Aunt Mona asked. "You didn't bring a date?"
Kristin forced a smile and answered. Thankfully, the conversation soon shifted from her lack of a love life to a rundown of who had died since the last family gathering eighteen months earlier.
"I'll be right back," she told her mother and father. "I'm going to the bar to get a drink."
As she was waiting for the bartender to make her strawberry daiquiri, the band began playing "We've Only Just Begun."
"No wedding would be complete without at least one song by the Carpenters," the man sitting on a stool beside her grumbled.
Kristin turned to see an elderly gentleman who bore a striking resemblance to the groom, Cole Sherley, a high school music teacher. Given his advanced age, she assumed he was Cole's grandfather.
"You don't like the Carpenters?" she asked, more out of courtesy than any interest in his opinion.
"They were all right," he reluctantly admitted. "Karen definitely had a good set of pipes. Too bad she had such a tragic end. But then, that's the music industry. Performers aren't known for their longevity. I was one of the lucky ones."
"Oh? Are you a musician?"
"I was way back when."
"That must be where Cole gets it from."
"My grandson is into classical music: Beethoven, Mozart, Bach and such. I played in a rock group. Big difference!"
"Were you in a local band like these guys?" she asked, nodding toward the musicians playing on the lodge's stage.
"Hell, no!" the old man said with a hardy laugh. "I suppose you're too young to have heard of the Sun Rays."
"My grandmother had one of their albums when I was a little girl. Were you in that group?"
"My name is Clark Sherley. I was the band's drummer."
"They were pretty good. Whatever happened to them?"
"When the so-called British Invasion hit the country, teenagers began losing interest in American bands."
"Didn't performers like the Beach Boys and the Four Seasons remain popular? And let's not forget the Motown artists. They were going strong at the time."
"That's true. Some musicians weathered the storm. But most couldn't stand up to the likes of the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Kinks and the Animals."
"The Animals," Kristin said with a dreamy smile on her face. "My mother had one of their albums, too. I always loved 'House of the Rising Sun.'"
"I'm not denying the British bands gave us a lot of good music. Hell, most of them were great! But for the Sun Rays, it meant the end. We might have survived if we were willing to change with the times. You know, let our hair grow long and made our music a bit edgier."
"Why didn't you?"
"We were going to, but then we lost our lead singer," Clark explained and ordered a second glass of Jack Daniels.
"Did he quit the band, or was he a casualty like Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison?"
"He committed suicide."
"That's a shame. I haven't heard my mother's old records in years, but from what I remember, he had a great voice."
"One of the best. The only one who could hold a candle to him was Elvis."
"What was his name?"
"Brian Kerner."
"That sounds familiar."
"I'm not surprised. TV shows like Unsolved Mysteries and Unexplained ran segments on him. You see, no one ever found his body after he killed himself; so, he joined the ranks of Jimmy Hoffa, Amelia Earhart and Judge Crater. Some conspiracy nuts claim he was abducted by aliens."
"Maybe he was," Kristin jokingly suggested. "Wasn't it back in the Fifties and Sixties that people were claiming to see UFOs?"
"Yeah, but little green men didn't kidnap Brian. He took a swim in the Hudson River and never came back."
A look of sadness darkened Clark's face, making him appear even older than he was. He tossed back the last of his drink and put the glass down on the bar.
"There you are!" Alberta Branwell exclaimed when she found her daughter seated at the bar. "I was wondering if you got lost or snuck out the back door."
"I was just having a conversation with Mr. Sherley here," Kristin explained. "Did you know he once played drums for the Sun Rays?"
"Really? My mother was a big fan of theirs. She had all three of their albums."
The conversation came to an end when the servers brought out the first course of the meal, and the two women returned to the table.
Thank God the food has arrived, Kristin thought with relief. My well-meaning relatives will be too busy eating to ask any more questions about my social life.
* * *
After having Sunday brunch with her parents, Kristin decided to get an early start home. The traffic on I-80 East could be brutal on Sunday evenings with the weekenders leaving the Poconos and heading back to New York and New Jersey.
"I'll be back in a couple of weeks to take you out for Mother's Day," she promised as she put her overnight bag into the trunk of her Subaru.
"Drive safely," Conway, her father, called as the car backed out of the driveway.
As she drove along the busy interstate, Kristin recalled her conversation with Clark Sherley. Several questions came to her mind. First and foremost, why would Brian Kerner, a young man with a successful career, want to kill himself?
It was nearly five o'clock when she pulled off I-80 and turned onto the local highway. After buying her dinner at Burger King's drive-thru, she headed home. By six o'clock, she was sitting at the desk in her living room in front of her laptop, with a Whopper, medium fries and a large Diet Coke.
A Google search of Brian Kerner's name yielded more than seven million results. From Wikipedia, she was able to learn the basic facts. The singer was born in 1941, formed the Sun Rays in 1957, released his first record in 1960 and went missing in June of 1964. Despite the lack of a body, his death was ruled a suicide since he left a note behind.
Given the media frenzy in the wake of Michael Jackson's death in 2009 and Prince's in 2016, she was surprised to find no contemporary news articles written about Brian's suicide. News coverage in 1964 centered around the major events of the day: the aftermath of the Kennedy assassination, the Warren Commission, the Cold War, Vietnam and the '64 presidential election. There was, however, an obituary. No manner or cause of death was given, but his next of kin were listed as his parents and a fiancée, Arlene Beck.
The fact that Brian Kerner was engaged when he took that final swim in the Hudson saddened her.
He was only twenty-three. He had his whole life ahead of him. Why did he do it?
With numerous questions and few answers, the journalist's curiosity was far from satisfied. Although she tried to concentrate on her latest assignment, a six-page article on the Hundred Years' War, her mind kept drifting from Henry V at Agincourt and Joan of Arc at the Siege of Orléans to what drove the Sun Rays frontman to end his life.
Since no one has ever written his biography, I suppose I'll never ....
The freelance journalist was suddenly reminded of another conversation from her cousin's wedding. Her Aunt Mona had asked if she still planned on writing a book. Although it was her lifelong desire to become a novelist, thoughts of such lofty aspirations had always been preceded by the word someday.
Maybe someday has finally arrived, she thought, deciding now was the time to fulfill her dreams.
Yet having decided to devote several months of her life to writing a book, she chose not to produce a novel but a nonfiction work on the life and death of Brian Kerner.
"First things first," the disciplined writer told herself. "Let me finish my feature on the Hundred Years' War before I take on anything else."
* * *
"Thank you for agreeing to talk to me," Kristin told Clark Sherley when she visited him at his Staten Island home.
"No need to thank me," the elderly, former musician said as he showed his guest the way to the living room. "I'm glad to have the company. Can I get you something to drink? A cup of coffee? A glass of soda?"
"Coffee would be nice."
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned several minutes later with two mugs.
"Do you mind if I record this interview?" she asked after sipping her hot coffee. "It's a lot easier than taking notes."
"No problem."
After she turned on the digital voice recorder, the loquacious drummer spent all afternoon reliving the early years of his career, from the day he met Brian Kerner when they were both freshmen in high school until June of 1964.
"So, the two of you formed the Sun Rays?" she asked, wanting to get her facts straight.
"Yeah, it was our band, mine and Brian's."
"And what other musicians did you recruit?"
"There were several guitar players over the years we were together. Sparky, our lead guitarist while we were still in high school, stayed with the band until graduation. Then he went off to college. Levon, who played bass, took a job with his father's insurance company. Two others, Avery and Finn, were drafted and sent to Vietnam, but only Avery came back alive."
For close to forty minutes, Clark talked about the other musicians who had contributed to the Sun Rays' success. Like Brian and Finn, several of them were now dead. One overdosed on drugs, two died of natural causes and one was killed in a car accident.
"I'm sorry I don't have any photographs of—wait a second."
The old man went to his hall closet and took down a cardboard carton from the top shelf.
"I almost forgot about these," he said, removing three albums and five singles from the box, all of which were in their original packaging.
One face stood out above the others.
"That's Brian Kerner," his friend said.
"He's cute."
"The teenage girls all thought so. They used to swoon over him as they did for Elvis and, later, the Beatles. We used to tease him and call him Baby Face and Pretty Boy—you know, like the gangsters."
"He was a ladies' man, huh?"
"Far from it. Arlene was the only girl for him."
"His fiancée."
"Yup. They had their whole life planned out. They were going to get married in the fall of 1964, after our West Coast tour, but ... well, you know what happened."
"Why do you think he killed himself?"
"I honestly don't know," Clark answered with a shrug of his shoulders. "If I had to take a guess, I'd say he suffered from depression, not that any of us knew much about it back then. But he would get into these dark moods sometimes."
"You've certainly given me a wealth of information," Kristin announced, turning off the recorder.
"Glad I could be of help. If you have any more questions for me, you've got my number. Of course, if you're going to write Brian's biography, you'll probably want to know more about his early childhood."
"Yes, I assume his parents are both dead now. Did he have any sisters or brothers?"
"Nope. He was an only child. If you want to know about the man's personal life, outside of music, Arlene Beck would be the best person to talk to."
"Do you know offhand what's become of her?"
"As far as I know she still lives in Tarrytown, New York."
"Isn't that ...?"
"Yeah. The place where Brian killed himself."
* * *
For the next three weeks, in addition to writing an article on the women's suffrage movement, Kristin transcribed the audio file from the interview with Clark Sherley. Before beginning the arduous task of compiling the information into a clear, concise narrative, she wanted to interview other people who knew the late musician.
Like the band's former drummer, Arlene Beck readily agreed to meet with her. After emailing the Women's Suffrage piece to Yesteryear, she headed across the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge—she still thought of it as the Tappan Zee—to the town where Brian Kerner was last seen alive. As she drove along Broadway, occasionally catching glimpses of the Hudson on her left, she wondered exactly where the musician had gone into the river. She neared what used to be called North Tarrytown but had recently been renamed Sleepy Hollow, and she found Arlene Beck's house.
"You must be Miss Branwell. Please come in."
Although she was weeks short of her eightieth birthday, Arlene still favored the fashions of the early 1960s. The cinch-waist, flare-skirted dress she wore looked like one Jackie Kennedy would wear to a Tupperware party. Even the hairstyle was reminiscent of pre-Beatles youth.
"Won't you have a seat?"
The interior of the Dutch colonial was more like that of a museum than a private home. Everything from the sofa set to the Zenith black-and-white console television screamed the early Sixties. It was as though time had stopped at the threshold. On the walls were dozens of framed photographs of Brian and Arlene as teenage sweethearts.
"What a lovely house you have," the journalist lied.
"Thank you. I haven't changed a thing since ...."
Arlene's voice drifted off as her mind went back to the past. Kristin imagined it was a place she frequented often.
"You were very young to have owned your own home back then."
"Actually, my parents owned the place. My dad's business took them all over the world. He was working in Japan throughout most of the early 1960s. When he eventually retired and moved to Arizona, he signed the house over to me."
Once the button was pressed on the recorder, the interview began. Through his fiancée's memories, the journalist was introduced to nine-year-old Brian Kerner, a boy whose dream was to someday pitch for the New York Yankees.
"So, he was into sports then, not music?"
"It wasn't until 1956 that all that changed."
"What happened in '56?"
"Elvis Presley. When he heard 'Don't Be Cruel,' it was like he had an epiphany or something. He would save up the money he earned on his paper route and buy Elvis records, which he'd bring over to my house to play on my record player. I still have them. Would you like to see them?"
"Sure."
Arlene then led the way down to the basement, which was even more like a time capsule than the living room was. Kristin gawked at the items that were on display: guitars mounted on the wall, mannequins dressed in Brian's stage costumes, framed publicity photos, concert posters and even his high school diploma.
"You kept everything, didn't you?"
"Yes, and when his mother died, she left me everything she had saved of his. I've got Brian's baby pictures, his birth certificate, his first tooth, his report cards from school ...."
"You must have really loved him."
"He was my life," Arlene declared, rummaging through a stack of old 45s. "Ah, here they are."
Kristin recognized the RCA Victor logo on the label. It was a 1955 recording of "Hound Dog." Beneath it were several others: "Heartbreak Hotel," "Blue Suede Shoes," "All Shook Up" and "Love Me Tender."
"I can still hear him singing along with those records," the old woman said nostalgically.
It was obvious that the two kids from Tarrytown fell in love at an early age. What was equally clear was that after sixty-five years, Arlene's love was as strong as ever.
It's sad, Kristin mused, looking at the woman who had become a walking anachronism. She's spent most of her life in love with a memory.
The two women spent hours in the basement, examining photo albums and scrapbooks. All the while, the voice recorder continued to run, capturing Brian Kerner's life as seen through the eyes of the woman who adored him. Finally, the writer asked the same question she had put to Clark Sherley.
"Why do you think he killed himself?"
The color drained from Arlene's face, and the paleness coupled with her dyed black hair and bright red lipstick made her look garish, like a circus clown.
"He didn't kill himself!" she cried in denial. "Whatever gave you that idea? My poor Brian died as a result of a drowning accident."
* * *
Arlene stood at the window, watching the writer drive away. When the Subaru turned left at the end of the block, she closed the drapes, preferring to look upon the past inside her house than at the present as seen in the world outside.
"She's going to write a book about you," she said, talking to Brian Kerner who was sitting in the chair recently vacated by the writer. "I certainly hope she doesn't spread that lie about your committing suicide!"
Of course, the musician was not really there, and his former fiancée knew that. She was not delusional. However, like a lonely child in need of a playmate, she had created him in her imagination. For fifty-six years, he had remained by her side—figuratively speaking since he only existed inside her head.
"I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'd like the world to know what a wonderful person you are, but at the same time, I'm selfish. I want you all to myself."
"I'll always be yours. You know that."
Arlene was comforted by his words, which were her words spoken inside her mind but with Brian's voice. Perhaps deep in her subconscious mind, the old woman knew this romantic fantasy was abnormal behavior and doubted her own sanity, but she never acknowledged those doubts. It was how she got through life, and her daydreams did not hurt anyone.
"I think I'll put a frozen pizza in the oven for dinner, and then afterward you and I can listen to Buddy Holly."
Such was Arlene Beck's life. The old Zenith black-and-white console television had not worked for decades, and she never bothered to get it repaired nor would she ever replace it with a more modern TV. Instead, the old woman would spend her evenings either listening to vinyl records (always of artists that predated the Beatles) or rereading her limited collection of old paperback novels from the Fifties and early Sixties. Even the food she ate, which was delivered by the local grocer, consisted of products and brands that were available when she was engaged to be married.
Like an agoraphobe, she never left her house. But it was not fear of the outside world that kept her prisoner. Rather, it was the desire to hold on to the past. Arlene literally stopped all the clocks in her house, and the calendar on the kitchen wall was still displaying June of 1964.
* * *
After spending the night at the Marriott in Tarrytown, Kristin drove to the library, hoping back issues of local newspapers would be a good source of information about Brian Kerner's death. A search through microfiche records of Tarrytown's Daily News from June 1964 yielded a single article about what was believed to be an accidental drowning. Unfortunately, there were no subsequent articles to set the record straight. There was, however, the name of the police officer who filed the report.
When she walked into the retirement home to speak with Haddon Pulver, she was surprised to see not a ninety-some-year-old retired police officer but his seventy-two-year-old son, Haddon Pulver, Jr.
"My dad passed away eighteen years ago," he said when the writer introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit. "But I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have about Brian Kerner."
"Did you know him?"
"I only met him two or three times, but I was a fan of his for years. He was a big celebrity to us kids, our own personal rock star. I remember hearing that he might go to Hollywood and star in movies like Elvis, Frankie Avalon, Bobby Darin and Fabian did, but then he died."
"That's what I wanted to talk to your father about. There seems to be some question about the manner of death."
"Really? I would think the matter was pretty straightforward."
"I spoke to Clark Sherley, the Sun Rays' former drummer ...."
"Is he still alive?" Haddon asked with surprise. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt what you were saying."
"That's okay. To answer your question, yes. Clark is still very much alive. I met him at his grandson's wedding."
"Good. Glad to hear it. Now, you were saying something about there being a question as to Brian's death."
"Mr. Sherley claims he committed suicide, yet both Arlene Beck and an article in the Daily News said it was an accidental drowning. Would you mind telling me everything you remember about that day in June 1964?" Kristin asked, taking the voice recorder out of her handbag and turning it on.
"It was June 6, a Saturday, so there was no school. Two boys were walking along the riverbank, skipping stones in the water and—I suspect—smoking cigarettes. When they found a set of men's clothes and a pair of men's shoes, they went home and called the police. My father was sent to the scene and found Brian Kerner's wallet and set of keys in the pants pocket. Given that the temperature was about sixty-five degrees, he doubted anyone would be out for a casual swim, especially in the Hudson. His suspicions were confirmed when he found a farewell note tucked into one of the shoes."
"Do you know what the note said?"
"No. My father wouldn't tell me. But whatever it said, Brian's intentions were quite clear."
"Why did the news article call it an accident then?"
"Suicide is an ugly word, especially back then. It would have caused quite a scandal. I suspect the police and the medical examiner thought it would be better for everyone concerned if the manner of death was listed as accidental. Of course, most people knew the truth or at least suspected it."
"And Arlene Beck? Did she know?"
"I'm sure she had her suspicions. But, of all people, she would be the last one to admit that he killed himself."
"You think she's in denial?"
"I think she lost her mind, to be quite frank. She hasn't left her house in over fifty years. I swear one day I'm going to pick up the paper and read that police found her mummified remains on top of a pile of Sun Rays' memorabilia."
* * *
After interviewing more than two dozen other people who either knew Brian Kerner personally or worked with the Sun Rays professionally, Kristin gathered all her information and arranged it in chronological order. The final step was to write the biography as truthfully as possible. That meant being honest about the delicate subject of his suicide. Once the first draft was completed, she submitted the manuscript to Burgess Communications, the company that owned Yesteryear magazine. They agreed to publish it, and the book—although it never made the New York Times Best Seller list—sold close to a million copies.
Given the success of the musical biographies What's Love Got to Do with It, Bohemian Rhapsody and Rocketman, Kristin was not surprised when a Hollywood producer contacted her about purchasing the movie rights to the book.
"I'm delighted today's generation of moviegoers will become familiar with Brian Kerner and his music," the author said after signing the papers that allowed an Oscar-winning screenwriter to adapt her book for moviegoers. "What Hollywood did for Tina Turner, Freddie Mercury and Elton John it will do for him."
"Yeah, sure," the producer explained, "but the main focus of the film will be the fiancée. What's her name?"
"Arlene Beck," his assistant replied.
"That's right. Arlene."
"I don't understand," Kristin said. "My book is a biography of Brian Kerner."
"I know, but who wants to see a movie about another self-destructive rock singer, especially one from back in the pre-Beatles days. But his fiancée ...."
"Arlene Beck," his assistant reminded him again.
"Right. She's the interesting one. She reminds me of Miss Havisham from Dickens's David Copperfield. An old woman living in the past after losing the love of her life—that's pathos. That will sell."
Kristin looked down at her signature and wondered if she had made a mistake signing away the rights to her book.
When the movie was released, it opened to rave reviews and became a huge hit at the box office. The success of the movie not only boosted the careers of the people who had worked on the film, but it also greatly increased the sales of the book. It was a win-win situation for both Hollywood and the author. Unfortunately, where there is a winner, there is often a loser. In this case, it was a woman who had already lost so much in her life.
With its focus on Brian Kerner's grieving fiancée, the movie generated public interest in Arlene Beck. Reporters and photographers flocked to Tarrytown, seeking interviews and candid pictures. Since she had not read the book or seen the movie, the old woman was not prepared for the media blitz. With some difficulty, she managed to keep the prying eyes and ears out. She took the receiver of the old table-model telephone off the hook, closed all the drapes and refused to answer the door.
"What do they all want from us?" she asked her imaginary companion as she cowered in the corner of the room, trying to ignore the persistent ringing of the bell and knocking on her front door. "Why don't they just go away and leave us alone?"
Eventually, after weeks of camping out in front of the Dutch colonial, even the most tenacious paparazzi gave up their useless pursuit and sought out more accessible victims. However, the damage had been done. The serenity and equilibrium of Arlene's peaceful, time-capsule existence had been destroyed, leaving the old woman fearful and nervous.
"What if they come back?" she cried. "What will we do?"
The Brian Kerner voice in her head tried to reassure her. Temporarily, at least, it succeeded.
* * *
Robert Frost once said, "In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on."
Kristin Branwell stopped working for Yesteryear magazine, began a second book (a novel) and got married, thus finally putting an end to her relatives' concern for her future. The Sun Rays were inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and Clark Sherley went to Cleveland to represent the band in the induction ceremony. Arlene Beck continued to live in Tarrytown, surrounded by the past. With the reporters and photographers long gone, she no longer trembled with fear when someone came to her house.
"I wonder who that can be," she mused when she heard the doorbell ring one afternoon.
She looked out the peephole in the front door to see a well-dressed woman of roughly her own age standing on the stoop.
"She doesn't look like a reporter," she told her fiancé.
"Maybe she's from the church," came the reply in her brain.
"Why come see us? Neither of us has set foot inside that church in almost sixty years."
"Answer the door and find out."
"Yes? Can I ...?" she inquired after opening the front door.
Arlene stared up at the woman's eyes, only a few inches above her own. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.
"Quick! Shut the door!" Brian's voice in her head commanded.
"It's been a long time, Arlene. Can I come in?"
Although she could not bring herself to answer, she moved to the side, allowing the visitor to enter.
"It's amazing! When I saw the movie, I thought the set designer was exaggerating. I see now he wasn't. Nothing has changed. My God! Look at all those old pictures on the wall."
"You ...."
It was only one word, but it was a start.
"I think I owe you an apology and an explanation. I didn't know until I read the book that my note was destroyed."
"You ...."
A second word or rather a repetition of the first.
"I never meant for you to believe I was dead. The whole suicide scam was for everyone else, not for you."
"Brian!"
There! She finally said it.
"I go by the name Briana now."
"Why?"
It was a one-word question that demanded a long answer.
"I couldn't go on living a lie, pretending to be something I'm not. And, given the times in which we lived, I couldn't be what I really was. I lacked the courage of people like Christine Jorgensen who openly acknowledged being transgender."
"But you ...."
This was progress: two words spoken together.
"I faked my death and went away. After relocating to Copenhagen, I became Briana. I later moved to Bruges and opened up a chocolate shop. My husband and I still live there."
"Husband?"
But he was her fiancé! How could he have a husband?
"I admit I was a coward, too scared to tell you face-to-face. But I explained everything in the note. I never dreamed that that police officer would open the envelope addressed to you and read it. Worse than that, the authorities destroyed the note and tried to pass my death off as an accidental drowning."
"You've led a full life, then?"
"Oh, yes!" Briana exclaimed. "Anton and I have traveled all over Europe."
"And I ... I never leave this house," Arlene said, more to herself than to her former fiancé.
"I'm sorry. I never dreamed you would take our breakup so hard."
With clarity she had not known in more than half a century, the old woman saw her wasted life as a series of missed opportunities and unfulfilled dreams.
"I was the one who died, not you," she said.
"It's not too late to put the past behind you and get on with your life."
"Not too late? Are you kidding? I'm in my eighties! There's not much chance of my getting married and having a family now."
Arlene found it excruciatingly painful to look into Brian's eyes set in Briana's face. Her gaze shifted to the coffee table and the antique sterling silver tea service that had been handed down from her great-grandmother. The stress of fending off the paparazzi after the release of the movie, coupled with the shock of learning what had actually become of the man she loved, shattered her already fragile mind. She picked up the heavy teapot and, with surprising strength for someone of her years, smashed in Briana's skull.
"What have I done?" she cried, trying to wipe the blood off her hand with a Kleenex tissue.
"Don't get upset, darling," Brian's voice told her. "What's done is done."
"And what will happen now?"
"We have to complete what I started that June day in 1964."
As Arlene Beck made her way to the bank of the Hudson, people stared at her outdated attire. Some knew about her from the book and the movie and whispered her name. She paid no attention to them, her mind engaged in constant conversation with the memory of a man who never really existed.
"Here we are," she announced aloud when she reached the river's edge.
Unlike the troubled young musician who could no longer endure his life as a man, Arlene did not undress. Nor did she leave a note behind. At the urging of the voice inside her head, she walked into the water fully clothed, never to be seen alive again.
Poodle skirts were popular in the 1950s, but my skirt had a black cat applique on it.
