No Summer This Year, Part 2

Notice:  This story has been rated "R" for adult language, nudity, sexual
content, violence, and explicit smoking.  Some scenes may be too intense for
the unimaginative.

Copyright 1998 by G. M. Sullivan.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied and distributed for the uncompensated amusement of others only.

Author's Introduction:  "Submitted for your approval, a little tale I call
'No Summer This Year.'  File this one under 'A Young Girl Starts Smoking...in
the Twilight Zone.'"

Dedication:  For the StogieMon, who understood.


"No Summer This Year," Part Two of Three


A gray gloom slowly impinged on her consciousness and Janie awoke.  For a
time she relaxed in the thin homeostatic comfort she had achieved under her
multiple blankets.

As usual, she incompletely remembered the previous night's Review.  She knew
it had been about Carla, however.  It often was.  Poor, sweet, Carla.

Reluctantly, Janie climbed out from under the covers, allowing her body to be
bathed in frigid air.  Why, she thought, am I getting up?  Why not stay
sheltered in bed until hunger or thirst forced her to rise?  She had no
answer to those questions.  She simply knew she had to get up.

As she re-donned her scarf, hat, and mittens, she noticed the pack of
cigarettes sitting on the dresser.  That reminded Janie of her smoking the
night before.  It had been nice, she thought.  Perhaps she would do it again
tonight, before sleeping.  There was so little to look forward to.  Now she
had something.

The kitchen and living room gaped emptily before her.  There was nothing for
her here, and nothing outside.  She hated to go out.  There was no reason to
go out.  She had enough food to last her a while, so there was no need to
return to the Store.  In the past she had often stayed in for days at a
time.  Yet she was going out, she knew.  There was no help for it.


Again, she had to kick fresh snow from the stoop before descending to the
street.  Snow never fell during the day, but always accumulated a little
every night.

Was it colder today?  She was always asking herself that question.  Maybe,
maybe not.  Perhaps there was a limit to how cold one could feel.  Anyway, it
was no warmer.

She found herself again on Fifth Avenue, walking north.  Past the park where,
mercifully, her mother was either absent or silent.  Past the Store, which
held nothing she needed.  On and on she trudged, her legs moving
mechanically, driving against the bitter wind, carrying her farther than she
could remember walking for a very long time.

Where was she going?  She knew of no place to the north worth the struggle to
reach.  Each step took her farther from the relative comfort of her
apartment, and each step would have to be retraced before dark.  To be caught
outside at night was unthinkable.

She walked through Washington Square Park where it interrupted the progress
of the avenue.  The full-sized replica of the Arc de Triomphe had collapsed,
cracked by cold and toppled by wind.  The remaining trees were just as dead,
the ground just as barren as the park closer to home.  No one, except for a
few ice-covered bodies, inhabited the former recreation area.

Still she continued on.  Past the park, the avenue was unblocked for miles
ahead, an arrow-straight canyon through the heart of New York..  When she
could finally see where the city ended, she stopped at last.

>From her vantage point at the corner of Fifth and Eighth Street, the avenue
continued north for a few dozen blocks.  There it ended suddenly in a sheer
wall of gray-green-blue ice, towering thousands of feet higher than the
tallest buildings, extending east and west as far as she could see..  At the
foot of the glacier skyscrapers lay fallen and broken, scraped from their
foundations by the millennial advance of the ice.

The sight did not shock or dismay her.  She had seen it before at some remote
time, more than once.  Someday, she knew, the wall of ice would draw close to
her home.  Then she would have to move.

It was not for this view that she had been forced to walk so far.  The vision
of New York's ultimate end filled her with indifference.  No, there was
something else here.  Her eyes were drawn to the left, toward the facade of
an old hotel.

Was it the Chelsea? she wondered.  No, that was further north and east.  She
didn't know this hotel.  Who would be staying in a hotel?  Even as she
wondered, her feet moved automatically toward the entrance, drawing her
through broken doors and into a dark lobby.

Shadows pooled in the corners of the large room, happily blurring the details
of the ruin.  Unsurprisingly, no one waited behind the registration desk.  To
her left, the bar area was unoccupied, save for a few bones scattered beneath
the barstools and empty tables.  The intact bottles behind the oak bar did
not interest her. The false warmth and forgetfulness they promised might be a
blessing, but it was a blessing denied to her.

Janie moved past these points of disinterest and found the stairs leading up
to the residence floors.  Time and distance became distorted, as they
sometimes did on her forced expeditions.

Her first stop was room 213.  From outside the cherry-wood door came
squishing and slithering sounds, leaving her mind crowded with unpleasant
images.  She did not want to open that door or enter that room.  But she
did.

Inside an orgy was in progress, an orgy of amputees.  The lack of various
arms and legs did not deter the ardor of the participants.  The coupled in
endless variety, producing the wet squishes and snake-like slitherings she
had heard from outside.  The sight was infinitely anaphrodisiac to Janie, and
she left the squalid scene as soon as her feet allowed her.


Her next stop was room 326.  A murmur of conversation and music was audible
from outside, and she lifted a mittened hand to knock. Before she could
strike the door it opened, a hand grabbed hers, and she was whisked inside.

A cocktail party was in full swing.  Well-dressed, uncoated men and women
were talking in small groups, but their words merged indistinguishably into
an unintelligible din.  Impossibly, a stereo was blaring a disco tune, adding
to the oppressive wall of sound.

The air was choked with smoke and noise.  A lit cigarette and martini glass
were thrust into her puzzlingly bare hands.  Pulling her scarf down, she
puffed on the cigarette automatically, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the
layers already stratified across the crowded room.  She tasted the martini
and found it to be ice water, garnished with a plastic olive  She did her
best to avoid the other partygoers, but her luck soon ran out.

A man in black tie, armed with a thick cigar, approached Janie.  He crowded
her so closely she found herself retreating into a corner.  Despite the
apparent absence of real alcohol, he seemed to be drunk.

"Hey, baby," he drawled.  "Come here often?"

"First time," she mumbled, trying to duck his gin-soaked breath.

"Listen, schweetheart, this is a bad scene.  Whaddaya say we blow this pop
stand?"  In his free hand he displayed a room key, dangling it in what he
seemed to think was a tempting manner.

Janie puffed furiously on her cigarette, trying to create a barrier of smoke
between her and the drunk.  "I...I need to get home," she said.

"Whassamatter, FRIGID?"  he laughed uproariously, becoming so amused by his
own joke that he reeled away and vanished into the throng.  His laughter
remained with her, echoing maddeningly and maniacally above both conversation
and music.

Janie dropped her cigarette and drink to the carpet and made a dash for the
door.  She was permitted to leave.


She was outside room 740.  This time no sound or other clue indicated that
anyone waited within.  Nevertheless, she feared this room above all the
others.  When she found herself reaching for the knob she fought, trying to
pull her rising hand away with her free one, pleading with no one to spare
her the sight within.

Despite her best efforts she was soon inside.  It was an ordinary hotel room,
with two neatly-made beds, the usual cheap furniture, and a dead television.
A large window was hidden by opaque curtains, but just enough light came
through to see by. There was no sign of occupancy except for a closed
suitcase sitting on the nearer bed.  Her breath came quickly and frostily in
the still air.

She turned to the bathroom, knowing that in there was the sight she must not
see, reaching for the knob anyway and opening the door.  Her heart pounded
painfully in her chest.

There was a young girl in the bathroom, a girl she knew.  She was hanging
naked from the shower rod on a short, twisted, cord, her face bloated and
purple, swollen tongue protruding grotesquely from her lips.

Janie screamed and screamed.


She came to her senses at the corner of Fifth and Bleeker, with no memory of
the long walk back.  Her mittens had been restored to her hands.  The gloom
overhead was deepening.  It was getting late.  Janie was grateful to be so
close to home.

Once safely back in the freezing shadows of her apartment, she found the
thought of eating anything nauseated her.  Instead she removed her hat,
scarf, and mittens, and retreated to the bedroom.  It was almost completely
dark, anyway.

Again she noticed her cigarettes on the dresser where she'd left them that
morning.  Returning to the kitchen to fetch matches, she removed a smoke from
the pack and lit up.

The smoke lay deep and thick inside her lungs, lending her its small warmth
as it had the night before.  She laced the bedroom air with exhaled smoke
again and again.  After one extra-long puff, she French-inhaled the smoke and
began her endless exhale with a series of perfect smoke rings.  When had she
learned to do that?

Soon the bedroom had darkened to the point where she could no longer see the
smoke or anything else beside the red glow at the tip of her almost-finished
cigarette.  After a last, invisible puff she gave in to the inevitable.  It
was time for bed.

================================================================

"Janie!" a shrill, familiar voice called from downstairs.  "Janie, your
friend Carla's here."  Her mother made only a small attempt to hide the
disapproval in her voice.

"Yes Mom, I'm coming in a minute."  Janie sat at the small vanity in her
bedroom, admiring the new dress she'd be wearing tonight for real.  Loaded
with crinoline lace but low-cut, it would leave her date Matt a helpless
lap-dog at the junior prom.

At 16, Janie was a lovely and popular high school sophomore.  Her dance card
was always full, and she had her pick of dates for every event.  Life was
good.  The last thing she needed was Carla-the-slut screwing it up.

She left her prom dress on and descended the stairs regally, picturing the
effect on imaginary onlookers.  She was a shining star, a porcelain object of
unreachable desire, and she relished every moment of her entrance.

Carla was sitting in the living room, her heavy eye-makeup
uncharacteristically smeared as though she'd been crying.  Janie's mother,
standing by the kitchen door, gave a smoky snort and disappeared within,
making no secret of her dislike of the two girl's presumed friendship.

Janie descended gracefully onto the couch next to Carla, careful not to
crease her frilly skirts.  Carla looked in wonder at this beautiful vision,
her eyes bright.  By comparison, Carla's dowdy and cheap clothes seemed a
defilement.

"Hi, Janie," Carla said hesitantly.  "Getting ready for the prom?"

"Of course," said Janie.  "Matt's taking me.  You have a date?"

"You know I don't," said Carla.  "Who would be seen at a prom with the likes
of me?"  Carla was 17, but was now in the same class as Janie.

"Pity," Janie said airily, but offered no more words of comfort.

Carla withdrew a pack of Salems.  She had smoked in this house before, with
no more than a glare from Janie's mother to discourage her.  "You wanna
cigarette?"

"Of course not, Carla.  I don't need those anymore to get a man's attention.
And when get it, I don't need to put out to keep it."

Janie was sorry for her words when Carla started crying in the midst of
lighting up.  It was cruel, she knew, but true nonetheless.  By now Carla had
gone though almost every boy in school, popular and unpopular, and none of
them would be seen with her in public anymore.

"Janie," Carla spoke through tears and smoke.  "Do you remember...when you
needed help?"

"I remember," Janie said, her face reddening.  Whatever request was coming,
she doubted she'd be able to honor it.

'And I helped you..."  Carla puffed repeatedly, trying to hide her
embarrassment behind exhaled smoke.

"Yes," Janie said, noncommittally.

"Well...I guess it's my turn now.  I tried talking to Barry...to see if he
had a date yet...but he wouldn't..."

"Barry?  He's a cute boy.  Did you miss him somehow?"

"Miss him?"  Then Carla got it.  "Oh, Janie, I don't wanna BE like that
anymore!  I wanna be more like...like you!  Please, Janie..."  Carla's eyes
were watering heavily, mascara leaving black tracks down her cheeks.  "Help
me..."

"And what can I do?"  Janie instantly regretted her abrupt tone.

"You've been out with him...maybe if you told him I'm different now..."

Carla's weakness began to anger Janie.  What could she do to repair a slut's
reputation?  Nothing!  The nerve of her to ask!  "Carla, face facts," she
said.  "You've fucked just about everyone in town.  You've had two abortions
that I know of.  When it comes to proms and stuff like that, you're finito.
Done.  Try your luck with the dropouts and older guys.  I'm sure..."

Janie got no further.  Carla stubbed out her cigarette and ran for the front
door, weeping audibly.  With a slam, she was gone.

Her mother emerged from the kitchen.  "What was that all about?"

"Nothing, Ma," Janie said quietly.  "She won't be back."

================================================================

Janie awoke in a sweat.  This had never happened during the endless days of
cold.  The Review had upset her.

For once she was glad to leave the bed.  However, as she picked up her few
discarded garments the covers began to look more attractive.  It seemed she
would be going out again today.  She could not remember the last time she'd
been out three days straight.

If it's anything like yesterday, she thought, I might just join the bodies
frozen to the pavement.

There was one small change to yesterday's routine.  This time she took the
pack of Kents and depleted box of matches with her, tucked in a coat pocket.
It wasn't Janie's idea.  She didn't expect to be smoking out there.  Not in
that wind...

She found herself turning west on Bleeker today, away from Fifth Avenue, the
Store, and her previous day's long trek.  This was both a relief and a
mystery, because there was little use in going in this direction.  All that
lay this way were empty brownstones, a few silent, scurrying people who she
saw from time to time, and nothing else.

After a while she paused to lean against a glaciated Volvo.  The wind usually
blew from the west and today was no exception.  Advancing into its teeth was
a hard task.  She needed a break from the toil, and as she rested she rubbed
the small, exposed area of her face vigorously with her mittened hands,
attempting to restore some blood flow.

"Excuse me," said a voice nearby.  "I know I'm not supposed to talk to
you..."

Janie looked up, startled.  Being accosted on the street was as rare as her
recent frequency of outings.  The young girl she had seen...before, smoking
on the street, was standing at her elbow, looking very unsure of herself.

She was very pretty.  Her long, orange hair streamed in the wind, her round
face unmarked by frostbite, though she wore no hat or scarf and her coat
looked cruelly light.

"Hello," said Janie, and nothing more.  Her social skills were like an iron
door with rusty hinges, slow to open.

"I was wondering if you had a spare cigarette?" said the girl.

"A cigarette?  No...yes."  Acting on her own, Janie removed her pack of Kents
and offered them.  The girl took one, her face brightened by a smile.  It was
a small enough kindness.

Janie was fishing in her pocket for matches when she saw that the cigarette
was already lit in the girl's bare hand.  She had missed how the teenager had
done it.  Drawing long on the burning smoke, the girl tilted her head back
and released an exhale that wrapped both of them in momentary fog.

Was it her imagination, or had that exhale carried a warmth beyond all
reason?  Janie imagined melting ice falling from her body.

"Thanks," said the girl, and rushed off.  Rushed.  Who rushed?  Janie wished
she would come back.  She wanted a cigarette herself, and knew her matches
could not hold flame in this wind.  She wanted to know the girl's name.  She
wanted to know why the girl wasn't supposed to speak to her.  She wanted a
friend.  Too late.

It had been a kindness, though.  There were never any of those, in her life
here or in the Reviews.  That, at least, had been something.


Like many streets in lower Manhattan, Bleeker did not describe a straight
path.  At one point the east-west street turned north, leading toward upper
Greenwich Village.  As Janie was passing the bend she heard a sound, a thin
wailing, and stopped.

Where was it coming from?  Janie looked around in dread.  Surprises were
rarely pleasant.

It was coming from a nearby dumpster, covered by an ice-encrusted, steel
lid.  She was not going to look in there.  She didn't have to.  Her feet and
arms were her own at the moment.  She would never be able to open the
cold-sealed box, anyway.

Janie hammered her mittens against the dumpster's side and ice fragments
fell, shattering on the hard, gray snow beneath it.  After a few minutes she
found she could raise the lid, though with some difficulty.

As she feared there was a baby inside, resting on a rough bed of frozen,
compressed garbage.  The infant was naked except for a stained-cloth diaper
pinned around its pelvis.  It could not be alive, but it was.  Alive, and
crying, its small breaths visible and quickly scattered by the wind.

She would just let the lid drop and move on.  This was none of her business.
She had not discarded this baby.  It was a ruse, a phantasm, anyway.  It
could not be alive.  She would see something terribly upsetting if she went
any further.

Struggling to hold the lid up with one hand, she reached down with the other
and scooped up the tiny child.  Through her mitten and coat sleeve she could
feel its body heat, defying the arctic cold.  Stepping back, she let the
heavy steel plate fall with an ice-shattering crash, audible for blocks.

Now what? she thought, as she regarded the infant held in the crook of her
arm.  Take it back to her apartment?  There was nothing there it could eat.
Milk and infant formula were never among the items available at the Store.
Perhaps if she mashed some of her peas...?  It was tearing her weak heart
out.  How in God's name could she keep it alive?

Something in that last thought resonated across the bleak cityscape.  The
scene wavered like a heat-mirage, as though it was a false front draped
across some deeper reality.  The distortion cleared quickly, the familiar
sights solidified, and Janie hardly noticed the perturbation.  There were
more urgent issues before her.

She had to try to care for it.  There was no one to blame her if she failed.
With her free hand she unbuttoned her coat, displacing layers of clothes
until she could see her bare chest.  Like a hungry beast, wind and cold
exploited the chink in her armor, penetrating into the gap until she was
shivering uncontrollably.  She ignored the discomfort, thrusting the infant
against her skin, rearranging layers of loose clothing and re-buttoning her
coat to afford the baby some shelter.

Wriggling beneath the layers of cloth, she felt the infant find and try to
feed at her dry, barren breasts.  There was no solace for it there.  However,
its furnace-like warmth suffused her torso, lending her a comfort she had not
known since the cold first invaded her life.  It was a luxurious sensation.
This act, though yet incomplete, was a greater kindness and one for which she
was being well-rewarded.

Intending to return home at once, she found herself continuing north
instead.  She had not gone far when a frantic voice called behind her.

"My baby!  Where is my baby?"

Janie stopped and turned, the front of her garments bulging ludicrously with
their new burden.  She was being pursued by a woman, a stranger, woefully
underdressed for the weather in a frilly nightgown and light slippers.

The woman approached closely.  Her face was creased with worry and fear,
showing an age that might be ten years greater than Janie's, possibly more.

"I did...a very foolish and cruel thing," she said.  "And now I can't find
her.  Have you seen...?"  The woman stared at Janie's bulging chest.

Janie stared at the woman critically.  She was strangely reluctant to give up
her new charge, one which she had wanted so much to shun.  Perhaps she could
not keep it...keep her alive.  But she would at least try.  She would never
abandon her to the cold, to die.

The woman seemed to sense Janie's thoughts.  "I am so, so, sorry.  You know
how hard it is..."  The woman paused.  "See, I can feed her!"  Shocking
Janie, the woman bared a breast and squeezed it.  A thin trickle of milk
seeped out and quickly became white ice on her pale skin.  "Can you?  I know
I've been a bad mother, a monster, but in Jesus' name, I swear to you I will
always care for Ellie, and never, ever..."

Janie made her decision and slowly, sadly, unbuttoned her coat.  Again the
cold invaded her core, and this time the discomfort was only increased by her
removal of the baby...of Ellie.  It was, she thought, the right thing to do.
But relinquishing the infant to this woman tore at her heart in a way she
never expected.  Her poor heart.

"Thank you, bless you!  You'll never regret..."  The woman's voice trailed
off as she turned and vanished into a nearby brownstone.  Janie was alone on
the street.

Janie noted the address.  She would be back to check, someday soon.

End of Part Two

Previous part | Next part