Worlds Apart by Daniel Kelley Page B

you. And Johnnie. And a home we could love. And for our own parents to live long, healthy lives. And for good food, good wine, good everything to be in our future.”
    Sonya looked off to the side, toward the entrance to the restaurant. A lone tear emerged, ran alongside her nose, and came to rest on her upper lip. “The wishing well, Papa,” she said. “You should get your money back.”
    But neither of them could smile at Sonya’s small attempt at a joke.
    Kurt pushed his plate forward and caught the waiter’s attention. The waiter took one glance at Sonya and began to prepare the bill, signaling the busboy to clear the table.
    The remainder of the meal was fraught with silence. The dishes cleared, Kurt pulled some bills out of his wallet, laid them atop the check, and then helped Sonya out of her chair.
    They held hands as they walked slowly to the coatroom. A uniformed man then opened the door to the street for them, and they halted unsteadily before the valet. It was a busy avenue; trucks and buses rumbled by, pedestrians stepped briskly through the cold day with a sense of purpose, a streetcar clanged its way down the center of the street.
    Kurt experienced his usual fretting over the idea of an unskilled valet driving his gorgeous Maybach , but handed over the ticket anyway.
    Sonya suddenly pulled him close, burrowing her rich blond hair into the curve of Kurt’s neck. She nuzzled him in the same endearing manner with which Elyse had for so many years.
    “I love you, Papa,” she said softly.
    And then she released her father and turned to walk four steps toward the street.
    But Sonya continued walking, without even glancing to her left as a truck bore down on her, as the driver smashed his brake pedal into the floorboard even though he already knew it was too late, as the truck’s metal grille first impaled, then crushed, then flung Sonya’s body into the air and fifty feet down the avenue.

Six
    It was a desolation unlike any Kurt had known before. A wilderness of agony, a universe of isolation and excruciating torment.
    He lay atop a thin mattress on the basement floor, the cold room oppressive and dank. The house above was silent, the world outside was nonexistent as far as Kurt was concerned. What was left out there for him now?
    Thoughts of suicide plagued him. If Reginald could, if Sonya did, why not Kurt as well? Was he going to be able to return to his tin soldiers and magazines to sustain his days? Did he truly have anything left to live for now other than these minor pleasures?
    He should off himself, he should end what was sure to become an even paltrier existence.
    But Kurt couldn’t even move his arms; his wrists felt leaden, yoked to the mattress as though he were a prisoner shackled to a jailhouse floor.
    Oh, for sleep! To at least be removed from this barrenness for a few hours!
    Sonya. That golden-haired darling of his, that sweet, sweet girl who’d been catapulted down the street like a discarded rag doll. Why had she done it? Hadn’t she understood that Kurt would have been there for her? That without her he was nothing, less than nothing? Sonya. Johnnie and Amy. Elyse. Reginald. His beautiful grandson.
    Kurt began to cry. Yet again. All gone, they were all gone.
    But then suddenly they were all there with him in the basement, and they began to sing. But it wasn’t his family singing, it was all men’s voices, Elyse belting out lyrics with a rich baritone, Sonya a bass. Even Reginald was bellowing a song about the glory of country in a lilting tenor, and all of them were so happy, jubilant as they vocalized in tuneful if boisterous harmony.
    And then Kurt was in a bar, the basement vanished and his family along with it, and he relaxed as the familiar scene began, and it was as if he knew exactly what he should do.
    He was hoisting a beer, foamy suds running down the sides of the glass, roaring as loudly as his compatriots. He knew the song, they all knew the song. Plump barmaids with