This writing was accepted for publication in the 96 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Too Many Miles” Down in the Dirt (v130) (the July/Aug. 2015 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book the Intersection the Down in the Dirt July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 Down in the Dirt issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

þÿTiffany’s Battle

Matthew H Emma

    Six o’clock in the morning marked the seventh time I’d passed by her room since the earthquake hit the previous evening. The papers were served just before eight by a grinning twenty-something man in a Wells Fargo shirt.
    “What’s this?” I asked.
    “Speak to your attorney,” he snarled, as he handed me a pen and strutted away seconds after I signed.
    Monique, or ‘Moni,’ the nickname which I’d addressed her since infancy, didn’t have to be in school for another two hours. I entered into another sobbing fit, causing further burning and soreness to eyes that had been leaking water like a ruptured fire hose since the previous evening. Moments later, my hands trembled and I raced toward the bathroom to expel more frustration and nerves into the toilet.
    After placing the Aladdin bowl filled with Froot Loops and a glass of orange juice on the Kitchen table at seven, I drifted to my room and threw on a black Vera Wang suit, some rouge and mascara. At twenty to eight, Bruno, our family’s chauffeur arrived to transport Moni to St. John’s Preparatory Elementary School on East Fifty-Third.
    “Bye Mommy,” she said, as the burlesque thirty-two-year-old, adorned in a suit and typical chauffeur’s hat, stood in the doorway petting our two-year-old Belgian Shepherd, Kiki.
    I clutched Moni for several seconds, before straightening the black jacket of her school uniform with the red and white school crest emblazoned in its upper left corner. Soon thereafter, I lumbered into the hallway, locked the door, rode the elevator to the parking garage, landed in my Mercedes and auto-piloted it to Chase Bank at the corner of Eighth and Forty-First. A half-hour into the workday, I picked up the phone and dialed extension three four seven.
    “Yep,” said Pete, my top assistant manager.
    “Got a minute?” I asked.
    Within seconds, he was in my office. I wiped my eyes.
    “Wow,” bellowed the portly, five ten, red faced Irishman with green eyes. “Look like hell. What’s up?”
    “Gotta get out of here,” I said, as I snared a lukewarm, half-full bottle of Dasani and popped a valium. “The ex’s at it again.”
    He stepped over and patted my left shoulder.
    “Go,” he said, as he pointed his right thumb towards the door.
    “You’re the best,” I said.
    As I hit the pavement, I texted Sigrid.
    “Got a few?” I asked. “Need to meet ASAP. Serious crap’s going down.”
    “Not now,” she answered right away. “In meeting. Can talk at lunch. One o’clock at our usual place.”
    I headed home and changed into jeans and a Syracuse Field Hockey t-shirt. In the hour prior to leaving for Central Park’s Loeb Boathouse, I huffed a quarter-pack of Camels. After arriving at twelve thirty, I nabbed our table by the lake and ordered an appletini for myself and pear Schnapps on the rocks for her. At one minute to one, her slender frame hovered over me donning a navy blue business suit and sporting the new, short blonde haircut she’d received at some point during the two weeks since we’d last been together.
    “Could use one about now,” she said, as she pointed at her drink, grabbed the glass and downed a sip.
    She leaned forward, pecked my cheek and slinked into her seat.
    “It’s Thom,” I said, as I wept. “He wants Moni.”
    The tears spouted again and my peepers burned to the point it felt like lava streaming out of them.
    “Taking me to court,” I managed to babble. “Got the papers last night.”
    She folded her arms and wrinkled her forehead.
    “I know,” she muttered, as she focused her attention on anything or anyone but me. “And I’m sure you’re hoping I’ll offer free legal counsel.”
    “Excuse me,” I said, while slanting towards the table’s edge. “Hoping you’ll offer support.”
    I positioned my face in my hands, but glimpsed up a few seconds hence.
    “What’s with the attitude?” I asked, as I threw out my arms. “Oh, and how the hell do you know?”
    “He called me last night,” she said, in a stern tone as she ran her palms up and down her cheeks. “Also mentioned something else.”
    Her face morphed into a hue of red resembling cinnamon.
    “Like?” I asked, as my entire body trembled.
    We had many arguments over the years, but this was the first time I’d seen her either squint her eyes or grind her teeth during one of them.
    “That you still hadn’t declined his umpteenth proposal til last month,” she snapped.
    She exhaled with such force it knocked a string of paper that once contained a straw onto the surrounding ground.
    “Know this isn’t the best time, but we’re officially over now,” she remarked. “And this time it’s permanent.”
    “What?” I asked, after swallowing hard enough to cause a sharp pain in my upper chest. “Why?”
    I buried the remainder of my drink, slammed the glass down and thrashed my hand against the front end of the table.
    “You can’t be that stupid,” she responded, as a single tear inched down her right cheek.
    I casted my seat back without thinking. It was fortunate the table behind us was unoccupied. However, several diners pored over me.
    “Don’t start this shit again,” I shrieked, as I stormed to the bar.
    The bartender held up two fingers and I was soon replenished with a couple fresh adult beverages. I returned and set the glasses down. As I gazed at her, she fixated on the table.
    “I professed our love,” I said, as I clutched her right hand. “What more do you expect?”
    “Way more than you’ve given,” she fired back.
    I gripped her hand tighter. She jerked it away in one quick motion.
    “For six years,” she continued. “I tolerated seeing the two of you splattered across Page Six, attending your galas and official appearances to please Mommy and live up to high society’s standards. You’re either in or out, but can’t stand in the doorway. Not with me anymore.”
    Her cries progressed to sobs. Despite the display of emotion, she still managed to direct more hisses and eye squints my direction.
    “Good luck,” she said, as she brushed the tears away with both thumbs. “Give Moni my love.”
    She arose and sauntered off without offering the slightest glance back. I remained at the bar for an additional two hours. Three mineral waters, ten cigs and two valiums later, I trudged home. Moni returned at a quarter to four. To maintain a sense of normalcy, I ordered pizza and threw in “The Little Mermaid,” which we watched until she fell asleep. I slogged into bed at ten and experienced another crying spell, before texting Mom at eleven.
    “Please meet with me tomorrow,” I said. “Need to talk.”
    A half-hour elapsed.
    “Fine,” she responded. “Stop by Vada’s at noon.”
    At a quarter-past twelve the following day, I arrived at the West Village spa. Mom’s athletic build was disguised by a white, cloth bathrobe and laid out on a massage table. She saw me and jolted her head in the other direction, causing a lock of her salt and pepper hair to fall across her forehead.
    “Sorry to interrupt your relaxation time,” I said. “Know how important that is to you.”
    She lifted her hand and waved, but wouldn’t face me.
    “You know?” I asked, as I possessed a folding chair to the left of the table.
    She flipped on her back.
    “The whole damn Upper East Side does,” she said, as she grimaced and bit her lip.
    “What am I gonna do?” I asked, having great difficulty be stilling a pair of quaking legs.
    “Don’t know,” she said. “And, to be honest, don’t care.”
    “I know you don’t,” I said, in a resigned manner after squatting down.
    She popped up. I followed suit and seized her wrist.
    “Let go,” she instructed. “I’ll have security throw you out.”
    I retreated.
    “I don’t understand, you, this, any of it,” she shouted. “You’ve done these things forever. Then come the consequences. And then it’s never your fault. Enough. Your father, I and your sisters can’t and won’t deal with it anymore.”
    I smacked my hand against a sink countertop.
    “Stop,” I screamed. “I can’t change.”
    “That’s not what I’m talking about,” she yelled. “Stop using <I>that</I> as a crutch. I mean, come on. Can you really blame him? You lied to everyone for as long as you could get away with it.”
    I covered my eyes, ran to the bathroom and kicked the door shut. For several minutes, I gasped, while seated atop a cold, off-white commode.
    “You’ll have to figure it out,” her ingratiating Bronx-accent echoed through the partition. “We’re not getting involved. You jumped into this trench and you’ll have to swim out. That’s it.”
    I reemerged after fifteen minutes, presented her with the middle finger of my right hand, staggered past and departed. She put her head down, laughed and shook her head.
    At two o’clock, I arrived home, raised the phone’s receiver and heard a beeping dial tone. The one new message was from Aimee Cantrelle, Producer for Francoise Mercier, one of Luxembourg’s most well-known television presenters.
    “Bonjour Countess,” she said. “Francoise’s coming to New York tomorrow and would like to schedule an interview. The public’s dying to hear your side.”
    As an automated female voice asked me whether to save or delete, the doorbell chimed. With neck curved and an AT & T portable attached to my right ear, I answered to find a heavy set woman wearing green slacks, a white sweatshirt and a tan jacket with a badge pinned to its lower left corner, standing in front of me.
    “Countess Tiffany Vonyckx?” she asked, as she placed a clipboard under her right shoulder, removed the identification card and inched it towards my face. “Esperanza Garcia of the New York City Department of Child Protective Services.”
    “And?” I inquired, as my heart raced faster than Eddie Merckx cycling through the French countryside in a leg of the Tour. .
    “We’ve received a complaint of possible child endangerment,” she answered. “May I come in?”
    I nodded and backtracked a few strides. She marched inside, flipped over a few papers and perused the living room.
    “Who the f, I mean heck did this?” I said, coming to the fast realization now was the time to watch my words and temper. “Perhaps my ex, Duke Thomas of Luxembourg?”
    “The tip was anonymous mam,” she said, not changing the blank, serious facial expression one might notice on a competitor in the World Series of Poker.
    I cracked my knuckles and hissed.
    “Could you please give me a second?” I asked.
    She glanced up.
    “Just gonna look around,” she said. “Should only take about twenty minutes.”
    I snatched a Louis Vuitton travel bag off the kitchen’s center island, tromped onto the terrace, snatched a fresh pack of Camels out of a side pocket and tossed one in my mouth. After sucking away every particle of tobacco there was, I set both hands on the balcony.
    “Aah,” I yelled.
    Twenty-five minutes and four butts later, I ventured inside. Garcia stood in the center of the living room offering a half-smile.
    “May I ask what the nature of this claim was?” I said, as my arterial pulses bounded.
    “Not at liberty to discuss specifics,” she said. “Don’t worry though. Everything checked out fine. Please understand we’re obligated to investigate.”
    “Understood,” I said, breathing easier, as I escorted her to the door and shut it the nanosecond she stepped into the hallway.
    A few minutes later, I called my younger sister Brigitte, who agreed to pick Moni up from school and watch her for a few days. Thom struck the first several blows. I so desired to retaliate in the form of a blitzkrieg, but settled down enough to formulate a sensible attack strategy. Any emotional reaction might cost me Moni and I couldn’t and wouldn’t risk that. Though getting revenge on Thom was also a goal, I knew I had to be sensible.
    “No you won’t,” I said, as I hurled one of Moni’s Nerf balls across the room. “Come on Tiff. Use that brain.”
    I proceeded to the living room closet, removed an Everlast bag, hung it up and spent several hours punching, kicking and thinking. One of my black belt inspired crescent kicks connected so well the red sack tumbled down, which caused a bottle to tumble from the top shelf of an adjacent curio cabinet and partially shatter. Upon further investigation, I discovered the casualty was a 750-milliliter Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge. I peered at it for about a minute and smiled.
    “Got ya,” I bellowed, as I raced out of the apartment.
    After waiting for ten minutes, I gave up on the elevator and darted down several flights of stairs to the garage. I remembered the car’s trunk was filled with a cigar box and another dozen or so depleted bottles of whiskey. After placing the items into a grime-laden, grey, gym bag, I moseyed back to the aging Otis’s door, pushed the button and hummed. About a quarter-hour later, I was back upstairs and decided to phone Contrelle back.
    “Glad you called,” she said, after one-and-a-half rings.
    “Can she do it tomorrow?” I asked.
    “The sooner the better,” she said.
    “Great,” I replied. “You’ll find me sitting on the Strawberry Fields benches in Central Park, not far from the IMAGINE landmark, at noon.”
    “She’ll be there,” she said.
    That morning, I departed at eleven, dressed in ripped jeans and a New York Giants t-shirt. Mercier, a five ten, thirty-five year old, former model with shoulder length blonde hair, who was dressed in a green Versace suit, swaggered in at a quarter to noon.
    “Appreciate this Contessa,” she said, as Jacques, her raven-haired, brown-eyed sound/camera man, affixed a microphone to the top left side of my shirt. “Love the casual look.”
    “Not here to parade down the red carpet,” I said, with quite a bit of attitude.
    “French or English?” she asked, as her smile dissipated.
    I gulped a few sips from a twenty-ounce Dasani.
    “English,” I declared.
    “We’re on in three,” she said. “I’ll give the intro and then we’ll begin.”
    The camera lights shined. As she greeted and prepped viewers in French, I shut my eyes, expelled air from my lungs, picked up the bag and positioned it in the center of the green bench I’d occupied. Jacques spun the Toyo 45 AII field apparatus in our direction.
    “Ready?” she asked, as she gripped my left hand.
    I raised my right thumb and made The Sign of the Cross for the first time in several years.
    “His Highness has made a number of allegations against you,” she said. “You’re reaction?”
    I chugged more water. My pulse jumped.
    “To which one in particular?” I asked.
    “Well, let’s start with his opinion you’re unfit to raise a child,” she said.
    I squirmed and put my hands together. The force of my heartbeat strengthened. Sweat beads accumulated on my forehead.
    “Interesting,” I said, as I released a burst of nervous laughter. “A month ago, he sent me a card saying how great a mother I am. Got it at home and will gladly send it to you.”
    Francoise’s eyes wandered. Three drunk men barged onto the set, waved and gyrated before the camera. As I stood up, she raised her right hand. Jacques shooed the intruders away.
    “Oy, that’s New York for you,” she said. “Nous reviendrons prochainement.”
    Jacques flicked a switch and the bright lights diminished. I stretched and punched my left palm with a right-handed fist three times. Francoise laid a hand on my left shoulder.
    “Didn’t think it’d be this hard,” I said, as I returned to my seat.
    “Doing fine,” she responded.
    During the three minute break, I ignited a Camel and inhaled three healthy drags.
    “Back on in a minute,” she announced, as three NYPD officers confronted a group of tourists attempting to peek in.
    The curtain lifted again.
    “How do you respond to questions about your lifestyle?” she asked.
    “The bigger question should be about how he plans to be a solid, single father, given his,” I snapped back.
    “Oh?” she asked, as she snapped her head back.
    I unzipped the duffel bag and first removed the damaged flask.
    “What’s that?” she wondered, as she glanced downward.
    I held it up.
    “Bring the camera closer,” I ordered, while I waved my hand forward like a parking lot attendant guiding a driver into a tight spot.
    Jacques obeyed.
    “You remember, don’t you Thom?” I asked, as I glared into the camera. “The many times you’d down shot after shot in my den while your daughter slept a few rooms down the hall. In here are another dozen or so different liquors he guzzled during our last six months together. ”
    Francoise edged forward and grinned.
    “You’re making quite a serious counter-claim,” she said.
    “Not a claim,” I snarled. “Pure fact, and he knows it.”
    I lifted my south end upward for two seconds, rested down, reached into the bag, sifted through its contents and snatched the Cohiba Esplendido box. Francoise’s eyes fixated on it. Jacques zoned in.
    “Expensive stogies,” she said.
    “Been a long time since a cigar came out of here,” I said. “Inside lies a straw, razor blade and cocaine residue with his fingerprints all over it. His dealer sold him out and he dumped it on me one very late night about four months ago. The police might be interested in this.”
    Francoise tilted her head.
    “I see you’ve channeled your inner Muhammed Ali,” she said. “This should be one hell of a fight.”
    I smiled. She inched her chair closer to mine.
    “One final question,” she said. “Think any of this’s your fault?”
    My skin felt flushed. I clenched my fists and exhaled.
    “A little,” I said. “I admit I was a bit dishonest about who and what I truly am. Still, he didn’t have to use our daughter as revenge. He’s cost me a lot already, but won’t take her. My attorney’s name’s Leslie Frazier. Her number’s (212)-787-2238. Let the New York Family Court decide who’s the deviant.”
    They cut away again. I leaped to my feet. Francoise and I kissed each other’s cheeks before I sauntered off. Before landing on West Sixty-First, my iPhone chimed, indicating a text. It was Frazier.
    “He already called,” she said. “Agreed to court proceedings. I’ll get this going.”
    “Checkmate,” or so I thought.
    While leaving work the following Wednesday, my cell vibrated. Again, it was Frazier.
    “What’s happening?” I asked, as I approached the parking lot.
    “Court date’s set for next Friday,” she said. “His attorney said he only wants visitation rights.”
    I activated the phone’s speaker mechanism, while unlocking and entering the car.
    “Got no problem with that,” I said.
    A several second pause ensued. It was obvious that wasn’t all.
    “Okay,” I said, respiring. “What else?”
    “There’s one other thing,” she answered, as she took more time between each word.
    I tossed the Samsung Galaxy on the passenger seat and sipped some water.
    “Well?” I asked.
    She cleared her throat.
    “He’s requesting you bring Moni,” she said.
    I blasted the steering wheel with my left hand.
    “What for?” I asked, as I gulped the remains of the tiny Poland Springs container and chucked it over my left shoulder.
    “Relax,” she said.
    I stomped a pair of Christian Louboutin heels against the floor with such strength, they both broke, forcing me to remove the six inchers.
    “You’ll come across as more compassionate and fair in everyone’s eyes,” she said.
    I barreled my right elbow into the left side of the front passenger seat.
    “Not seeing how,” I responded.
    She cleared her throat again, but at a louder volume.
    “Who knows when he’ll get to see her again,” she said. “I know you’re mad, but give him a few minutes. Promise Moni won’t have to be in the courtroom.”
    “Trusting your judgment,” I said, as I ignited the V8 engine, shifted into reverse and manned the gas with a right foot covered only by blue nylon.
    “I’m glad,” she laughed. “I’ll email exact details when I get them.”
    I ended the call and skidded off.
    The week-and-a-half leading up to that morning flew by without incident.
    “Do I have to wear this stupid white dress?” Moni asked, as she struggled to slide into the Stella McCartney child line creation.
    “Haven’t seen your father in a few months,” I said, from the living room, as I fired up a Camel. “So, yes.”
    When she emerged, I combed her light brown locks.
    “Hurry up with those Froot Loops,” I said. “Need to leave in a half-hour.”
    Court proceedings were set to begin at eleven. Bruno arrived at ten. Moni finished her breakfast a few minutes thereafter.
    “Hey Bruno,” she said, as she jumped into his arms.
    He offered a bright smile and returned her to solid ground.
    “Grabbing my book,” she said, as she skipped towards her room.
    I motioned him over, while brushing ashes off a brown Vera Wang suit.
    “You mind sticking around?” I asked.
    “What do you mean?” he responded.
    I popped another Camel into my mouth, gaited across the rug and eyed him.
    “Just in case,” I said.
    “Sure,” he responded.
    We arrived at the Seventh Avenue Courthouse at forty-three minutes after ten. I clutched Moni’s hand as we entered. Frazier greeted us.
    “Made it,” I told the forty-seven-year-old blonde in grey pants and a white shirt.
    “They pushed it back to eleven-thirty,” she said. “Um. He’s already here. Want to let Moni see him?”
    I didn’t, either then or ever, but relented.
    “Fine,” I sneered.
    We reached a side office where the six two, brown-haired, blue-eyed Royal adorned in a black Armani suit appeared.
    “Papa,” Moni yelled, as she sprinted towards him.
    Thom scooped her up and kissed her cheek. With my head lowered, I witnessed the scene from several feet away. Thom placed Moni down and she scooted a few feet to my left.
    “Can’t you at least be pleasant?” he asked, as he lurched over and tapped my left shoulder.
    I jolted back as Moni ran into an office. When glimpsing up, I noticed he had bloodshot eyes, quaking hands, was sweating and snorted repeatedly, like someone suffering from a cold or allergy.
    “You’re repulsive,” I snarled. “High again. What kind of man are you?”
    I whirled around and attempted to step off. He snatched my right arm and dragged me towards him.
    “You’re hurting me,” I said.
    “That makes us even,” he said, as a streak of blood trickled out of his left nostril.
    I slinked back, minced away backwards and studied him.
    “Now,” he bellowed. “With your permission, I’d like to see my daughter for a second or two.”
    He stumbled toward the office. Frazier reappeared. Eager to get Thom out of my sight, I joined her.
    “Still have a few minutes,” she said. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
    I was crying.
    “What’d he do?” she asked.
    I threw my hands up.
    “Forget it,” I said, while brushing away the tears. “Just want to get this over with.”
    The elevator brought us to the cafeteria, one floor up.
    “Anything you want to discuss?” Frazier asked, as I sunk into a chipped, orange chair.
    My nerves prevented me from sitting down.
    “Gonna wait by the courtroom,” I said, as I leaped back up. “See ya downstairs.”
    I hastened towards the elevator, which dinged as soon as I tapped the button. When the doors parted, I was met by Gregory Turner, Thom’s lawyer.
    “Seen your ex?” the obese, balding sixty-nine-year-old asked.
    “With my daughter in the lounge,” I answered.
    He closed his eyes, sunk his head and shook it three times.
    “Not for the last fifteen minutes,” he said. “Been texting over and over. No response.”
    My heart thwacked. I anticipated Thom would try something, but didn’t expect him to resort to kidnapping.
    “He took her,” I shouted, as a violent wave of nausea set in.
    Turner tried to place his right hand on my shoulder.
    “Don’t jump to...,” he said.
    “Get away from me,” I interrupted, as I made a fist with my right hand and swung it at him. “Couldn’t you see how high he was?”
    He sighed and retreated.
    “I’ll notify security,” he said, as he wandered off.
    “You do that,” I yelled. “Fuck.”
    I descended to my knees and sobbed.
    “Moni,” I screamed.
    A few minutes later, a large party of security personnel scurried throughout each floor of the building, before checking stairwells. Frazier whisked out of the elevator and ran towards me. Despite quivering legs, I stumbled to my feet. She gripped my right hand.
    “Shouldn’t have let him near her,” I said, as all four limbs now quaked non-stop. “God knows how much coke he vacuumed into his skull. What’ve I done?”
    She slumped back and leaned against a wall. I pulled my curly, brown hair with enough oomph to pluck a few strands out.
    “It’s my fault,” she said. “Shouldn’t have agreed to let Moni be here.”
    “No,” I said, in a resigned tone. “It’s mine. In every way. If anything happens to her.”
    Following a half-hour search, it was concluded neither Thom nor Moni were anywhere inside. As Frazier accompanied me to the lounge, my phone vibrated. I removed it from a green Michael Kors handbag and noticed it was a text sent from Thom’s cell.
    “Meet me you know where,” the message said. “Moni’s fine. Come alone. I stress that last part.”
    I bounced up and charged into the hall.
    “Where’re you going?” Frazier asked. “Was it him?”
    “To a certain place and yes,” I responded. “I’ll fill you in when I can.”
    She chased after me.
    “What should I tell everyone?” she asked.
    “The truth,” I said. “Something I’ve never been able to do.”
    While racing out, I almost tripped. I kicked off a pair of four-inch heels and carried them in my left hand as I bolted towards Bruno’s silver Lincoln Continental. After flinging open the rear right passenger side door, I vaulted inside and landed sideways on the black leather seat.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, as he placed a plastic bottle of Pepsi into a cup holder. “Where’s Moni?”
    “Thom,” I said, attempting to catch my breath. “Thom took her.”
    Bruno turned pale and his eyes welled with tears.
    “Oh Dear God” he said.
    I placed a hand on his left shoulder.
    “Listen to me,” I retorted, in a dictatorial voice. “They’re in Bryant Park. Drop me off in the area, park out of sight and contact the police.”
    I gagged and dry heaved several times.
    “However,” I continued. “It’s important you tell them to maintain their distance. Thom made that point very clear. He’s high and desperate. Til Moni’s safe, he’s the boss.”
    Bruno did his best Mario Andretti imitation it and motored to Fifth and Thirty-Eighth within ten minutes. I slid my heels back on.
    “Stop,” I ordered. “I’ll hoof it from here.”
    I darted out and rapped on his window.
    “Remember what I told you,” I said. “I’ll contact you directly ASAP.”
    A single tear streaked down his left cheek. I squeezed his right hand.
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll be driving her to school til she goes to college.”
    My legs grew heavy and tremulous as I lumbered towards the benches near The Park’s Le Carrousel. However, when I saw Moni smiling on the middle of the three black resting spots, my pulse let up a bit. Thom was sitting next to her, but facing in the opposite direction. Scores of people marched by. I plodded over and settled down on the cement adjacent to Moni. She giggled when I embraced her. He veered around.
    “You okay?” I asked Moni.
    She smiled. I noticed an empty, cylindrical vile on the grass below the bench.
    “Papa’s acting weird,” she said.
    “I know,” I said, as he sprung to his feet and paced in circles.
    Bystanders leered at him. Thom’s face was dripping wet and both hands quivered from inside his jacket, which forced him to drop two blood-tinged tissues from his pocket. He approached, halted, glanced around and grabbed my arm.
    “What do you want?” I asked.
    His head made violent, involuntary jerking motions.
    “For you and everyone else to bear witness,” he shouted, as he leaped atop the last bench.
    “To what?” I wondered.
    He sobbed and yanked what seemed to be another container of cocaine from inside his coat.
    “The last act of a broken man,” he said.
    I vaulted up and tried to approach him.
    “Sit down,” he bellowed.
    I obeyed and dragged Moni towards me. He loped down. At this point, hundreds pored over the scene. The Merry-Go-Round ceased.
    “This man’s my ex,” I shouted after pouncing onto the middle bench. “He’s high and could be dangerous. Keep your distance please.”
    Thom inched towards the bench, viewed me for several seconds and pointed downward. I heeded the warning.
    “Sure you got some people on the way or hiding somewhere,” he said, shoving me in the direction of the far left bench.
    I stayed silent. He hopped onto the middle bench.
    “I’ll tell you what people,” he screamed.
    Whispers and laughter could be heard.
    “To prove I’m more distraught lover than monster,” he said, as he grinned. “Gonna let my daughter go.”
    I released a humongous burst of air.
    “Thank you Lord,” I muttered to myself.
    The most important objective was met. Round one to me.
    “Ten minutes,” he whispered. “No one approaches and you stay put.”
    He unsealed the glass holder and snorted half its contents. An older, heavyset African-American woman wept. I snared my phone and texted Bruno:
    “He’s letting Moni go,” I typed. “At Carousel, pull up to street, let her in and leave fast. Got less than ten.”
    Within three minutes, I heard tires skidding along Fortieth. I surrendered to my knees and grabbed Moni.
    “Bruno’s down there,” I said. “Go with him now. Papa’s sick and Mommy needs to help him.”
    I was grateful not to get an argument, but she eyed me while zig-zagging backwards until reaching the car. Bruno sped off. Sirens wailed.
    “Uh oh,” Thom shouted. “We’d better jump ahead. You and the esteemed Countess all gonna watch me bleed to death.”
    I ascended. He ingested more blow and flailed his arms. Blood poured from his nostrils like raging rapids. Several women screamed. From the corner of my eye, I saw a group of NYPD officers moving in from the right. Thom’s attention was to the left. As I closed in, he brandished a butcher knife and put it to his throat. Though angry enough to kill Thom, I was determined to prevent him from killing himself.
    “Stay away you damn dyke,” he ordered.
    I dropped to the grass and opened my arms as if I wanted to embrace him.
    “Please,” I begged. “I’ll listen. I owe you at least that much. You’re right to blame me. For everything.”
    He staggered off the bench and slinked to the ground beside me. The police drew closer. I held him with my left hand and placed the right one up. The police caught the hint, but so did he.
    “Who the fuck you gesturing to?” he asked, as he whirled around.
    The cops zoomed in. Thom grabbed the knife and positioned its tip a few inches from his abdomen. I tried to wrestle it away, but he squeezed my wrist. I held my grip and, as he tried to flip me over, was able to knee his groin and disable him enough to where both drugs and knife were propelled airborne and fell on a patch of dirt several feet from the original line of scrimmage. He recovered and attempted to reclaim the lost items, but I was able to kick them beyond his reach. At last, New York’s finest took command. Thom was apprehended, cuffed and taken into custody.
    For the next ninety minutes, the middle bench and I were inseparable and the seven Camels I huffed and two Valiums I ingested did little to be still a pair of hands that quivered like the San Andreas Fault during a Northern California earthquake. Around three o’clock, Bruno drove me to a Midtown NYPD precinct where I was reunited with Moni. I gave her a bear hug and bawled for several minutes.
    “Tiff,” Tiff,” a faint, female voice called out.
    I glimpsed up and noticed it was Frazier. She peered at me for at least thirty seconds.
    “It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to say a word.”
    She smiled.
    “Well,” she exhaled. “For the record and whatever it’s worth, his visitation rights have been suspended indefinitely. They’re sending him back to Luxembourg. His parents are putting him in rehab, which’ll be followed by several months in a psych ward.”
    “Man, what’d I do?” I asked.
    I spotted an unoccupied corner of the station, retired to it and squatted down for a brief moment.
    “Sorry Thom,” I whispered to myself.
    I turned around and stood erect. Moni gazed at me. I threw open my arms. She sprinted over, jumped up and we embraced.
    “Is Papa okay?” she asked. “Why was he acting so funny?”
    “Don’t be too upset with him,” I said, as I tightened my grip on her. “He got mad because of something Mommy did.”
    She glimpsed up.
    “What do you mean?” she asked.
    “You wouldn’t understand yet,” I said. “Someday, I’ll explain. Ready to go home?”
    She nodded, as her green peepers closed. Forty minutes later, I put her to bed inside the comfort of our apartment. Bruno insisted on spending the night on our living room sofa. At nine o’clock, I retired to my bedroom. As I hopped into bed, Kiki joined me. At ten, the landline chimed. The caller ID revealed it to be Mercier. I answered.
    “Countess?” she asked.
    I put the phone on speaker.
    “I’m here,” I said. “Luckily.”
    She cleared her throat.
    “Um,” she said. “I’m truly calling to find out how you’re doing?
    “I survived,” I said. “And it’s fine. I know that’s not the only reason.”
    A few seconds of silence ensued.
    “I, I know it’s not fair to ask you for it now,” she stuttered. “But, would you be willing to do another interview when you’re ready?”
    I sat up. For some reason, perhaps that I was still in shock, I was in the mood to talk.
    “Sure,” I said.
    “In parting,” she said. “Could I sneak one quick question in?”
    “Yep,” I said.
    “What would you say you learned from this ordeal?” she asked.
    I didn’t hesitate.
    “I could sum it up in four words,” I said.
    “What would they be?” she asked.
    I stood up and chugged some Dasani.
    “The value of honesty,” I said.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...