Goodnight, Sunrise

by Michael Schulman

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3

conclusion

The next thing Harley remembered was the sounds of rushing cars coming through the open window. On his back, Harley squinted at the spinning ceiling fan. A chill hung in the air. Last night’s smoke haunted the room. The denim jacket spread over his body. The sheet was tucked into the undisturbed bed.

It was morning, and Keisha was gone.

Harley had woken up to an empty hotel room with a beam of sunshine streaking through the window. The swooshing of the interstate, a constant, also saluted his vain attempt to wake up.

“Goodnight, sunrise,” Harley said to the window, his elbows propping up his aching chest. His knowingly pale attempt at irony matched the pale pallor of his face. He turned back into bed and fell asleep again.

He awoke later in the afternoon. On his drive home, Harley went a smooth, even seventy on the interstate. He followed a Land Rover with a white bumper sticker with a sliver of the American flag and the announcement: HOMOS FOR HILLARY 2016. Harley played with his Glock’s safety and fantasized about shooting the SUV’s spare tire. The car, stuck in cruise control, stubbornly followed the speed limit.

Harley reflected on Carol’s reluctance to work and felt a need to go on a violent stampede through town. A violent vengeance fantasy elaborated on the premise of “Everyone’s out to get me.” The conspiracy of all events before and around Harley’s existence made it so. Carol might be buying an expensive iPhone background now. Maybe it’s a full-frontal of the vintage Brad Pitt she gets hot for. No doubt she’ll find the vendor that overcharges the most.

But no, Harley pointed the barrel at his head. He’d prefer to kill himself than touch Carol in anger. For a studio portrait, he wanted every strand of her shoulder-length, feathery-banged blond bob intact. Carol looked the part of the very pregnant mother, and he had the urge to bring her to a photo studio and get her visage immortalized.

Harley reached for a beer on the seat next to him, applying more anesthesia to his critical faculties. The wheels weaved in and out of the lane markings. The Land Rover shifted to the right lane, letting Harley hit ninety-five on a seventy.

It was Sunday at 3 p.m., and Harley had woken up late at the motel, hungover and still drunk. Tomorrow was his birthday.

Carol’s face was red, and her flesh appeared cherubic. Her teeth were visible in a bright, innocent smile. Because “all is good with the Earth and Jesus lived and died for our sins” is a fine reason to be happy. But she wasn’t happy, and Harley got that stinging impression for the entirety of her pregnancy.

Harley’s chest throbbed. His sick love of sweet home, sharing sticks of orange cheese with Carol, cuddling in front of the TV watching Saturday morning cartoons. Sometimes getting drunk together and her childlike love for cats. She was never responsible enough to own a pet.

Up close, the heat from her chest and her silver dollar nipples were covered with a New York Rangers sweatshirt over her naked body. He could almost smell her apple-cinnamon shampoo and the bubblegum-flavored saliva of her kisses. She was a voluptuous feast. Harley wanted her now, and he thought of her on the couch, playing with the phone. He eased his hand down his jeans, playing with himself, and the car shook slightly. Hungry, he’d call her from the Papa John’s by the Chevy dealership and go straight home.

The same leather wallet in his back pocket was flat, worn, and faded, slender and limp.

* * *

At home, the TV blasted in an empty kitchen. FOX 5 NY news turned all the way up on a report from the National Hurricane Center. A tropical storm was expected by tomorrow morning. Hurricane Eleanor was coming to Suffolk County.

Unplug all electronics, turn off circuit breakers, and maybe put the storm shutters up. Check the roof trusses. How bad is the storm going to be? Category 1: 75 mile per hour winds. Dangerous winds will cause some damage. Harley made a mental map and checklist: we’re going to need flashlights. What else? Flashlights. Flashlights with plenty of batteries. What else? Extra batteries. Plenty of extra batteries. His mind relaxed through chewing the cud of nonsensical repetition: get the Amazon Basics 12 Pack C Cell All-Purpose Alkaline, Amazon Basics 12 Pack C Cell All-Purpose Alkaline, Amazon Basics 12 Pack...

The house shook, but the storm hadn’t come yet. It was the TV in the living room, the volume on maximum. The sound pummelled Harley’s boozy head, a push at first, then a shoving match. Finally, it became a round of fisticuffs fought with a mace, clubs, and flails.

“Carol? Where are the—” Harley’s phone shook in his hand, ringing with an unexpected beat. Carol hadn’t picked up before. Maybe it was—

“Where’s the damn phone?” Harley patted himself, mumbling. Harley twirled around an axis from the couch, the coffee table, the TV, and the roll-top desk. Dumb to everything except the noise of the electronics, he lost his grip on what was in his other hand. It dropped, and a can of beer made a pile of foam on the carpet.

A slip of pink heart-shaped paper under the pile of invoices and bills on the roll-top desk hung loosely like a wagging tongue.

“Carol, your pills,” Harley said to himself.

FROM THE MIND OF CAROLINE NOVAK-JOHNSTON, on heart-shaped personal stationery, were lines of scrawled ink.

“Carol, you forgot the folic acid,” Harley said. He had the bottle in his hand.

The writing, crossed out a dozen times, written hurried, careless, was barely legible.

“Take the folic acid,” Harley said to the TV, phone, beer, and empty house.

Dear Harley.

“The doctor says you have to take the tablet before bed.”

There are no issues left. Dad gave me some cash. I’m going to California to live with Cousin Pattie.

“Carol, the doctor says to take it. The same time, every day.”

He’s going to be a boy.

“Carol!” The phone rang, and Harley answered.

1 MISSED CALL / 4:03 PM

In the back, on the docks, Harley put all the rods, fishing apparel, supplies, and gear in a crate and threw it into the boat. He turned on the motor, took the bungee cord, unmoored the boat, and kicked it in the general direction of the waterway. The craft, caught in a stream, passed the dock and sputtered down the bay without a driver. Harley watched it for a little while. Then he went into the pickup truck and drove.

It started raining. The storm came early.

* * *

When Harley escaped from Montauk Haven to Harley’s buddy’s house in Magansett, he took Route 27. No way was he going to duck the storm, but he had a chance to escape the curse he knew would get him. But above all, he hoped he would get a call from Carol to tell him she was all right, even if he never escaped Montauk Haven.

On the highway, the pit-a-pat on the chrome and glass of the rain and wind rocked the pickup off its wheels. The car flew, taking leaps in the wet air, and went too fast for the weather. All roads in the center of Montauk Haven lead to Napeaguee Bay’s rusty pier. The boats swayed madly, double- or triple-anchored. It didn’t matter. Eleanor was coming to rip the nails from the mooring and docks.

“Harley, feel my tummy.” In his imagination, Carol guided Harley’s hand to the baby. “He’s kicking, Harley. He’s going to be a boy. You’re going to be a daddy.”

An outpouring, massive like the storm came, came to him. Harley — hysterical — sucked in air, his nose leaking mucus. His crying was almost as loud as the storm.

“It’s my fault. It’s my weakness. I’m Daddy’s son. Daddy’s son.” Harley beat the seat with his fists.

“You’re going to be a father, Harley. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

“I was wrong,” Harley blew his nose in his jacket. The phone rang. “Carol? Carol, are you there?” The phone hung up as fast as it rang.

1 MISSED CALL / 6:04 PM

The storm came, and traffic backed up for miles on Route 27. He figured he was two miles from city limits.

The sign:

MAGANSETT
WEST 2.1 MILES

Harley had a keen sense of direction, depth, and distance. He could tell pressure, temperature, and drag with a sniff of the air in a boat or car. It could do him no good. The cars lined up with too many people playing chicken with the weather. People ignored evacuation orders until the last second.

“Hurricane Eleanor is a beast, and it is coming right for us. We have made the storm a Category 2,” the radio said.

With the dulled attention of someone thinking about something else, Harley listened as the radio gave a jumble of names and numbers. Harley could hardly pay attention. He thought about Carol and where she might be. He repeatedly rolled the bottle of folic acid in his palm, counting to ten.

The horns went off, drivers angry at each other, life, and the storm.

“The National Hurricane Center says there’s a significant potential for damage and loss of life for the east end of Long Island. Stay indoors and away from windows.”

Harley snapped the bottle open and chucked the yellow pills across the dashboard. He tossed the bottle aside and joined the chorus of car horns.

“The governor is reporting the first known storm-related death. The governor’s office reported that a 12-year old girl was killed when a tree fell on her home.”

Harley put his fingertips on Carol’s belly, waiting. Sometimes, he thought he could feel the baby’s heartbeat, or was it his throbbing head? He swiped the passenger seat with the back of his arm. Empty. He had forgotten the six-pack in the fridge.

“Close all doors—”

Thick, silvery, cold sweat coated the pickup truck’s hood. The hard and fast rain flogged the car, and a moonbeam lit the water. The wipers hit the windshield, stuttering and stopping.

“Brace and secure outside doors.”

The moon disappeared under a thunderous cloud, and the rain crashed. The threatening but distant lightning rumbled in a deep, resonant celestial throat-clearing.

“And keep curtains and blinds closed.”

A column of wet metal and rubber lined Route 27, and the endless line of red brake lights lit the black night.

“The storm has been upgraded. Wind gusts up to one hundred miles per hour. Community shelters in Suffolk County have opened.”

The rocking truck lulled Harley to a boozy sleep. Harley eventually awoke. His bladder burned.

The bay’s tributary — a new and sudden formation — grew with each moment. Formed at the hindmost part of traffic, the water crept up behind Harley’s Dodge. The stream snaked past the rusty pier where the boats had floated. Now, they were underwater.

“It is recommended to move to higher ground,” the radio went on in a continuous monotone mumble.

His body quivered, the pressure on Harley’s pelvis too much to hold. His bladder leaked out in spurts.

The water smacked the windows in waves.

Harley watched the empty beer shake on the passenger seat’s floor vinyl, longing. The can was valuable and empty, too, which he could relieve himself into.

What did Carol mean when she said the word propriety? Accepted standards of behavior. Decorum? Good taste?

The phone vibrated on the seat and rang:

It’s 12:00 a.m., March 21. To the Birthday Boy on your special day. Don’t be shy little guy! Blow that candle out and eat your cake, cos today is all about you!

With the car stopped in miles of traffic, Harley opened the driver’s side door to relieve himself. At first, just an irritant, the water washed at his heels. The car’s going to smell like the bay. But the thought had made him smile. Napeaguee Bay and its waters stank a home and a livelihood.

His imagination caught him in a time warp, and he dreamed of the Johnstons generations back. Alexander Johnston must’ve worn one of those tri-corner hats. Carol was the history major; she was the smart one. She could tell him all about it.

The fantasy of distant relatives froze in his head, and the familiar feeling came. Harley concentrated, and his attention became fixed but dull.

He thought his fate was clear: he was going to drown, right? Not much of a surprise. Dull, like late-night TV.

The water came into the car in waves. The wind and force of water hit Harley across the chin. More water ran through, and Harley fought with the seatbelt. The water reached his eyes, nostrils, and mouth, and he ate whipping water. Harley pulled out of the seatbelt. There was a loud pop, and the steering wheel airbag punched him. The smell of gunpowder filled the cabin and then dissipated. Now flowing in a steady stream, the crashing water knocked Harley into a daze. Losing his senses, he dreamed.

* * *

Harley Johnston caught the marigold burst of sunlight over the docks of Napeaguee Bay in an eternal portrait. It was 7 a.m. The sun pillar was too bright for him to look at. He lowered his head, and the brim of his Yankees cap shielded his eyes. In the upper reaches of the sky and slowly lowering itself, it was exactly as he imagined it: a white flame. For a moment, Harley saw an angel flutter by.

Did he imagine it?

He didn’t, and angels were real. It was a messenger.

Harley wanted a message about Carol and the baby. He wanted to know if he would be a boy’s father. Not for pride, name-sharing, or a head start on shopping for blue wallpaper.

The flame settled down on the dock. Slender threadlike appendages of the pale fire’s shape formed into the distinct structures of arms and legs. Of a boy no older than ten.

The boy looked at Harley in the sun, smiling. “Remember me? You believe in ghosts now, don’t you? Still wanna show me how to fish?”

“Will I finally be able to meet Daddy?” Harley said.

“Nothing’s impossible, mister.”

Harley closed his eyes and made a wish. Collecting stardust, the boy — an angel and messenger — took Harley’s cap. The boy held it above his head, catching the wish in the sunshine around them. He blew off into the distance, up to the highest reaches of the sky, and turned into the surge of light that was too bright for Harley Johnston to see.