After the Song Ends

Chapter I.

The storm clouds were gathering overhead, rumbling and swelling, building into a tower of thunder that shrouded the evening sky in a dim and ominous haze. The city lights twinkled underneath like stars trapped below a dark shroud. Though the first drop was yet to fall, the air hung thick with the dampness of petrichor, and the gentle rumble of the distant colossus quickened the pace of the passers-by.

It was early autumn in New York City, the year was 1948, and no amount of rain could wash away the electric excitement that floated through the air, seeping from every door and from every person who stepped upon the street. The war had been over for almost three years to the day, leaving it recent enough to incite desperation and distant enough to inspire hope. The economy had climbed from the dark ravine into which it had collapsed in ‘29 and was quickly on the rise. People were filled with joy, with promise, with dreams of what would soon come.

Gene Elliot was only filled with the cool evening air and melancholy.

The man stood beside the town car, leaning on the passenger side door with his hands in his pockets, watching the plumes of his breath float up to the heavens. The gentle cracks around his eyes and the start of white in his hair beneath his driver’s cap were the only signs of his age. He was an able bodied man of forty-two, and when he wasn’t slouched as he was now against the town car, he stood a head taller than most of the crowd. His thick overcoat reached to his toes and a shall was wrapped around his neck, but somehow he still felt a chill.

Mr. Elliot hummed gently to himself while he waited. There was a stillness among the din that he felt around him, but really it came from within himself. It was a sense of being lost and of being found, of floating in the limbo between consciousness and sleep, unable to see through the haze of dream into the reality of the world that moves on around.

“Mister, is this our vehicle?”

Mr. Elliot raised his eyes, but he did not move. Before him stood a young gentleman, tall and imposing. His dark hair was combed back and his blue eyes had a dangerous fire behind them that burned a frightening heat. The gentleman’s words were soft as a breeze and commanding as a general’s. “Your name, Sir?”

“Simmons. Clark Simmons.” The young gentleman placed his hands into the pockets of his navy blue suit and watched the driver with a gaze that seemed more searching than inquizzative.

“Yes Sir. This is your car,” he said, straightening up.

“Fine. I’ll fetch my party,” Mr. Simmons said with a quick nod. He turned on his heels and disappeared into the hotel doors. As he did, the clouds that had been moving closer and closer finally appeared overhead. They opened above him, and the first drops began to fall, slowly at first and then all at once, like tears from a heartbroken good-bye. Mr. Elliot reached into the car and pulled out an umbrella.

“Why! I can hardly believe this rain.” The driver glanced up in the direction of the ridiculous statement and traced it back to the painted coral lips of a slender blonde in an evening gown. It was blue, a shade lighter than her eyes, and she was clutching the arm of a young gentleman dressed in much the same style as Mr. Simmons. In fact, at first glance he was the exact image of Mr. Simmons, except that his eyes were a deep brown and his hair was nearly blonde.

“I certainly can,” the man replied. “It’s been dreary all day. Didn’t you see how gray the sky was through your window?”

“Of course not. It was bright and gay all the morning and by the time I came in, it was time to get ready. I was too preoccupied to look out the window.”

“Naturally,” he said.

“Naturally.”

Clark Simmons appeared beside him and pointed out the car. Mr. Elliot approached with the umbrella for the lady and walked her to the vehicle. She held her hem from the puddling sidewalk. Her escort quickly slipped in behind her.

When he turned back for Mr. Simmons, there at his side stood another lady. He stopped, straightened. Her skin was the color of caramel and her hair was short, twirling around her face and the top of her neck, blacker than night. She glanced around herself, observing the happenings of the street, and then peered at the driver with large, piercing eyes, atramentous and yet strangely illuminated. Suddenly the dimness of the evening parted into a late spring day in the strangest sense of deja vu, but just as quickly it returned and all was dripping and dreary again.

“Allow me,” he said, approaching the young couple.

Mr. Simmons motioned toward the driver who stood waiting. “You first, Carmen.”

She turned to him with a gentle smile. “Thank you, sir,” the lady said, her voice laced with the gentlest of accents. Carmen gathered her red satin dress and stepped beneath the umbrella, following him to the car. Her escort jogged over and slid into the seat beside her.

Mr. Elliot, having closed the door, stood still beneath the shelter of the umbrella and surveyed the length of the street to the pattering of rain. He wished to stay there for a moment, if nothing else, only to remind himself that the year was in fact 1948. He gathered himself and went around to the driver’s side.

“Where to, sir?”

“To the Met. And step on it. We’re running behind.”

“Right, sir.” He pulled away from the hotel.