Part 2: Character Sketch:
Dan splashed hot water over his face. Straightening up to his full six foot frame, he peered into the medicine cabinet mirror. Beads of water dripped off his stubby chin into the sink below. Muted silver streaks highlighted his thick brown hair at the crown and temples. His deep blue, sapphire-colored eyes peered closer. Tufts of eyebrows stuck out at bizarre angles, giving him the appearance of a wild man. He bared his teeth to the mirror. Genetic predisposition blessed him with a strong set of pearly whites; daily brushing and flossing with an obligatory visit to the dentist's office every six month or so, kept the nicotine and coffee stains to a minimum.
He lathered up the sliver-flecked beard that softened his jaw line with mint smelling shaving cream. A radio played and Dan hummed along with Dylan's Positively Fourth Street, "They'll stone when you're trying to be so good. They'll stone you like they said they would." His razor nicked a small mole to the right of his Adam's apple. "Shit!" He reached for a bit of toilet paper as a thin line of blood flowed down his neck.
The door banged open behind him and a large black Labrador retriever nosed his way over to the toilet. "Manny-" Dan's voice warned the dog. The dog looked up soulfully at his master. Dan resumed shaving. Manny lowered his muzzle deep into the porcelain pot, slurping from the seemingly never-ending supply of cool water.
Fifteen minutes later in the kitchen, Dan, dressed in Levis, a button-down shirt, and Reeboks, sat at the kitchen table reading the Post Gazette. Mr. Coffee, on the counter over by the sink, gurgled and made sounds like tiny horses galloping across western plains. A final sigh/hiss like that of a steam engine coming to a halt, signaled the brewing was finished.
"Daddy?" Chief stood in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with his small moist fist.
"Hey sport." Dan folded his paper shut and smiled at the young boy. "Have a good sleep?"
Chief squinted and wrinkled up his nose, grinning shyly. The boy's eyes still had a far off look to them, "I dreamed about Mommy."
Dan reached over and pulled his son close to him, hugging him, savoring the boy's sweet morning smell. "Why don't you tell me all about it while I cook us some breakfast. It’s just the two of us this morning. Remember, Patty stayed all night at her friend Phoebe’s house."
Later the smell of burnt bacon and cooked coffee still filled the air. Chief was crawling around on the living room floor, a cherry red Matchbook car in his hand. A roadway dug in the thick pile carpet, led to a giant garage under the coffee table. Others crisscrossed freeway style in front of the fireplace and circled back under and around the legs of the sofa table. Tunnels ran through the skirted bottoms of the couch and easy chairs. A six foot long cityscape ran in front of the rocking chair, glossy pictures courtesy of Grandpa Charlie, cut from old National Geographic articles and pasted with loving arthritic hands to corrugated panels one sleepy Sunday morning last winter. The panoramic view folded up into a more manageable eighteen by twenty four inches, and easily slid safely away under the couch when "Chief City" reverted back to the boring old living room.
An airfield bordered the city limits. Lined up in the shadows of the bay window were squadrons of planes...British Spitfires, German Messerschmittss, U. S. P-40 Flying Tigers. Plastic army men stood silent sentry in front of the glass doors of the stereo cabinet. An old round mirror, laying face up, served as the lake.
"Vrroom, Vrroom", Chief ran the red Corvette convertible under an underpass and "Errrt!!!", screeched it to a halt.
"What's the matter here?" the driver of the Corvette yelled towards the accident scene ahead of him.
A blue Ford Fairlane sat sideways, blocking the roadway. In front of that was a rust brown colored Chevy Chevette, lying awkwardly, upside down, its wheels spinning.
"We crashed-- call an ambulance!" A high pitched, panic-filled voice cried out from the inverted vehicle.
"Right, nine-one-one!" A hearty masculine voice boomed from the Ford.
"Hold on there, I've got a car phone." This from the red Corvette.
"Clang-clang, Clang-clang; RRERR, RRERRR" A fire engine and black and white bubble-topped police car raced across the brick hearth.
High above the city, oblivious to the life and death drama below, Dan, lay prone on the couch, his eyes closed and face covered with the pages of the Sunday Post Gazette's sports section.
He dreamed he was walking through the Littleton cemetery. It was a cold, rainy, early spring day in 1957. Daniel James Logan, Dan's uncle and namesake, had been killed in an car accident along with two other men from a neighboring county. His aunt Fay had driven the boy to the cemetery. The funeral had been a week before and Dan’s parents hadn’t thought it was appropriate that he go accompany them to grave site. Aunt Fay had disagreed and the first chance she had alone with the boy, she drove him up there herself.
"My Dan is gone now." Fay had explained to the bewildered young boy. She had a low voice, like that of someone with chronic bronchial problems. Her eyebrows, thick and furry looking, were permanently arched in upside down V's. What might look swarthy and fine on a man looked fiendish and severe on this heavy sour-faced woman.
"He won't be coming back no more." She sounded angry. "No more! He’s dead!"
"Come on now." She pulled at Dan’s arm hard, leading him away from the raw muddy mound that was his uncle’s grave.
Dan hadn't cried, not because he wasn't mourning the loss of his uncle but more because he was afraid of Aunt Fay. She never had harmed the boy but there was just something about her that made him feel uneasy.
She’d led him up over the hill, pulling on his arm until he felt it might come out of its socket. They passed a couple of diseased and dying, misshapen spruce trees. As they started down the other side, they walked past ancient crypts, carved black stone walls sticking halfway out of the hill, each with iron gates protecting them. Some of the grave sites here were so old that even charcoal rubbings wouldn't uncover dates and names of the dearly departed.
They crossed the road and started down another hill. Dan noticed these graves were each marked with small animal and cherub shaped headstones: lambs and rabbits, in addition to the normal hearts, angels, and crosses.
"See them stones lambs there?" Fay hissed as she pushed Dan ahead of her, "That's where the babies are. Babies die too, you know."
Dan looked around at all the little graves, the animals, the cherubs. A sighing sound filled his ears, whisper soft but deafening. He could hear his aunt repeating herself, "Babies die too, you know." It sounded as if she was talking to him from far away.
Dan woke up with a start.
"Babies die too, you know." Chief was making the ambulance driver’s voice sound like Aunt Fay’s. But that was impossible, Aunt Fay had been dead for over twenty years now.
The front door slammed and Patty came running into the living room, shrugging off her coat, throwing down her backpack, and pillow. She bounced down onto the carpet beside her brother, "I’m home!"
