The woman was very old. Older than his grandmother. The one who died a few months before. His father's mother. Her name was Rose. But he and his three sisters called her little bouba because she was small. He used to like her a lot. But the last time he saw her in the hospital she screamed so much that he ran out of the room. He forgot all about her. The way she looked. How she spoke to him. Sometimes his mother and father spoke that way. Mostly when they were angry at each other. Then, they yelled.
He didn't much like his other grandmother. His mother's mother. She was big. Fat. Liked to drink beer. Drank tea out of a glass with a cube of sugar in the pocket of her cheek. She spoke Yiddish and Russian. And yelled at him a lot whenever she saw him.
The old lady sat on the stoop only when it was warm and the sun was out. She was small, thin, and had very white hair piled on top her head. A large, strange-looking cross hung from a silver chain around her thin neck. Even though she was in the sun, she had a large, knitted, white shawl over her shoulders.
Sonny was directly across from her, when she called to him in a thin, high voice.
"Young man! Young man! Would you help me?"
Sonny stopped. He understood her but she sounded funny.
"Would you help me, lad?"
He looked up and down the street to make sure she meant him.
"I need a strong lad to lean on," she said, beckoning to him and smiling.
His first impulse was to continue walking. He had a bad report card. And didn't want another bad thing happening.
"You don't have to be afraid," she said.
"Who's afraid?" Instantly, Sonny rose to the challenge and crossed the street. Close to her, he saw all the lines in her face. Some were very deep. Especially those running down from the sides and the corners of her mouth. They looked more like the marks he made when he ran the tip of a nail across a piece of wood. Or across the fender of a car. But her eyes were blue. The color of the sky and twinkling. There were little flashes of light in them.
"Now you come closer and hand me my cane," she said.
Sonny hesitated.
"Come, come lad!"
He handed the wooden cane to her.
"Thank you," she said. Her hands were very thin. Lots of blue lines showed through the skin.
"Now, you come here. Closer. When I stand, I'll take hold of your shoulder." She raised herself very slowly.
Suddenly he felt the hard grip of her long bony fingers on his shoulder. Like the grip the kids on the block said the blind man had. Once he got hold of you, he had you. Then, her hold eased.
"Now, slowly to the door we go," she said.
And it was slow. Only three steps. When they reached it, the old lady said, "I can manage from here. Inside, there's a banister all the way to the top."
Sonny was about to run down the steps and all the way home. By now, his mother would be worried about him getting into a fight. Usually, that was why he was late. He was a fighter. Tall and wiry for his age, he was the biggest boy in the class. He'd been left back twice. Once in the first grade. And again in the second grade. Now in the third grade, he was in the dumbest class--3B2. His teachers said he was bad. Even the principal, Mrs. Starky, said he'd wind up in prison. That made his mother cry. Mrs. Starky threatened to send him to an ungraded school--a school for bad kids. That made his mother cry even more. Now, he got a bad report card again--except for the reading and the vocabulary.
"Here's a penny for you lad," the old woman said. Taking the copper coin out of her apron pocket.
Though he hesitated, Sonny immediately thought about the bubble gum he could buy. And with it get another baseball card. Which he could trade if he had a double. Or use to play flips in the school yard. Or here on the block. He was good at flips. But he was even better at war. In which he used a deck of cards. Maybe a dozen. Locked together with rubber bands. And he tossed them toward a line three cement squares away from where he and the other players stood. The deck landing closest to the line won. Usually, another card. Though sometimes a whole deck.
The old woman's hand went up and down. "You take the penny," she urged. "And if you see me on the stoop when you come home from school, you come across the street and help me to the door and I'll give you a penny each time. That will be your after school job. Would you like that?"
He nodded and took the penny.
"Now, tell me your name, lad, and where you live? she asked.
"Sonny," he said. "And I live over there. In the apartment house." He pointed to it.
"Oh, you mustn't point. It's bad manners," the old woman said.
He gave her a peculiar look. His teacher, Mrs. Riley, said the same thing. She was old too. But he didn't think she was as old as the old woman standing in front of him. Maybe they knew each other. And talked about pointing and manners and things like that.
"Good manners help you get on in the world," she said.
"Well that's where I live," Sonny answered. Eager to be gone, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.
"Fidgety lad, aren't you?"
Sonny didn't answer. His teacher complained he was "always fidgeting." Now, he was sure that old lady knew Mrs. Riley.
"It's time for me to go upstairs," the old woman said. "But before I go, I think I should tell you my name. That is, of course, if you want to know it?"
"Sure I do," Sonny replied.
"Mrs. Kelly," the old woman said. "You may call me Mrs. Kelly."
"Alright."
"Now you go along home, Sonny," she said. "And if the weather is nice, lad, I'll be here on the stoop waiting for you."
Sonny turned. Jumped the six steps from the stoop to the sidewalk. And ran all the way to the red brick building where he lived.
Sonny took the steps two at a time. Because he lived on the top floor, he had a lot of steps to take before he burst into the apartment. And was slammed by the heavy smell of fried fish. A step through the opened door, and he was in the kitchen.
There was nothing fancy about the apartment. A kitchen. A large bedroom for his parents. A bedroom for his three sisters. And another bedroom for Mr. Krauss. Who helped pay the rent and left the bathroom with the smell of cigarette smoke whenever he used it. For as long as Sonny remembered, there was always a boarder in the house. He slept on a roll-a-way cot in living room next to the sofa.
His mother--a big woman with hair piled in a bun on the back of her head and wearing a faded blue house dress--peered at him through metal rimmed glasses. With her voice close to anger, she said, "You've been fighting again."
"No mama, I haven't been," Sonny answered. Dropping his books near the door. "No. I haven't been fighting."
"Tell me why you're late."
"I stopped to help old lady Kelly. She lives up the street. Across from the blind man's house."
His mother came toward him. Because she was as likely to give him the back of her hand as to wait for an explanation, he considered running back into the hallway. If not all the way downstairs. But she stopped before reaching him and said, "There's powdered milk on the table. Mix it with water. And there's a slice of bread on the table, also. I'm going out shopping. Maybe I can buy a few potatoes and onions and fry them for supper." She turned and went into the bedroom.
The box of powdered milk was next to the pieces of fried fish on a plate covered with cheese cloth. A fly walked across the white expanse, then it flew away.
Sonny opened the icebox. Took out a jar of cold water and brought it to the table. He mixed some water and powdered milk into a glass. Real milk was something special. Sometimes his mother sent him to the corner grocery store to buy it. And he carried it home in a pail she gave him. Or she brought it home in a bottle with a narrow neck filled with cream that sat on top of the milk. Sometimes his mother or one of his sisters used a fork to whip the cream until it was very thick. Almost like butter. Because most of the time butter cost too much for his mother to buy.
"Two tablespoons is all you need," his mother called from the bedroom.
But he had already used three.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes mama," Sonny answered.
He ate the bread and drank the milk quickly. So far, his mother hadn't asked him about his report card. Maybe, she forgot about it. Not her. His father said she had a memory like an elephant. Sonny was never sure whether that was something good or bad. He remembered things he read about better than he remembered things that happened. He could take the stories he read and make believe he was inside of them. Especially with the BOMBA, THE JUNGLE BOY books. Because he sat in the last seat of the last row, it was easy to do that in school. All he had to do was look out of the window at the sky. It was a lot more interesting than listening to what Mrs. Riley had to say.
Sonny's greenish-gray eyes roamed over the kitchen. Outside a half-opened window was a line of wash all the way to the pole in the yard. The white gas range had yellow and brown stains on it. The green paint on the opposite wall had bubbles near the ceiling. And at the opposite end of the table the ash tray had two crushed cigarettes in it. He sniffed the air. Nothing but the smell of fried fish.
"Sonny, you're not listening to me," his mother yelled.
He looked up, She was alongside him.
"Yes," he answered.
"Let me see it."
Reluctantly he slid off the chair. Went to his books and pulled the report card out of his reader.
The instant his mother looked at the card, her right hand shot out. Slammed him across his face. And sent him crashing against the wall.
"I got an A in reading," he wailed, trying to protect himself from her blows.
She grabbed hold of his right arm with one hand and with the other his hair. And pulled him along the floor. "In the closet," she screamed, "in the closet!"
"No mama. No!"
"You'll stay there until I come back," she shouted.
Sonny screamed, "I promise I'll be good. I promise. Mama let me out." He could take his mother's smack. Even the beatings with a leather belt. But he was afraid of the closet. Afraid of the darkness. And all of the things that were in it. He sat down. Drew his knees up. This was Mrs. Riley's fault. Her fault. He heard the kitchen door close. And it was quiet. Very quiet. Another door opened and closed..
"Let me out," he screamed. And began to kick the door until it burst open. He ran to the fire escape window in his mother and father's room. Flung it up. And crawled out on to the fire escape. He looked down, then up toward the roof. An instant later he started to climb up the iron ladder. By the time he reached the top, he was sweating. He paused. Looked down. Then jumped from the ladder to the roof. He ran to the roof door. Opened it and ran down stairs into the street. He was free. At least for a little while!
###
Seymour stood at the window. Looking at building across the street. But not really seeing it.
"What do you mean free?" Dr. Hasse asked. In almost a whisper.
Seymour slowly turned to his right. Though he knew the office, his green-gray eyes roamed over it. The walls were covered with books from the floor to the ceiling. Except where there were spaces for the various doctor's degrees. Photographs of the places he had visited. And three ship models: the Cutty Sark, the Andre Doria, and the aircraft carrier, Enterprise. Seymour finally looked at the doctor, who sat behind his mahogany desk.
"Tell me about the feeling of being free?" the doctor asked. Rephrasing his question. A short, bantam cock of a man. With steel gray eyes and a bald pate. He didn't allow his patients to traffic in evasions. He asked a question and demanded--however professionally--an answer.
Seymour blinked. "Free as in Free . . . No one was on my case."
"Where did you go?"
"To the billboards on the lot on Church Avenue. More accurately behind them. I climbed up to the top and stayed there. I don't remember whether my sister, Rose, or my father found me." He paused. As if he were trying to resurrect a Lazarus-like memory. But thememory was dead.
"How high were the billboards?" Dr. Hasse asked.
"To a nine year old they were very high. Probably twenty-five to thirty feet up."
As he often did, Dr. Hasse ran his hand over his bald pate. "You never mentioned the billboards before," he said.
"I must have. They were my refuge."
"Once you were on top what did you do?"
"Imagine--I was anyone I wanted to be. A cowboy. An Indian. A pirate. I could become any one of them in an instant."
Seymour crossed his right leg over his left. "I don't know why I brought all of this up. I mean, I'm an old man."
Dr. Hasse smiled. "Is that how you see yourself?"
"At seventy-five what other way should I see myself?" Twice a grandfather, he weathered the divorces of his two sons, Jess and Paul. His own bout with stomach cancer. And the usual quantity of disappointments and feelings of joy that living brings. If he were a religious man, he'd count his blessings instead of seeking treatment from a psychoanalyst young enough to be his son. Dredging up the past was like vomiting half-digested food--it stank. But he would not have started if he had not recognized that the odds of his continuing to see the sunshine and luxuriate in its warmth were diminishing rapidly.
"I'm sorry, Seymour, the time is up," Dr. Hasse said. As a single ping came from the doctor's black desk clock. "The next time see if you can tell me more about the two crushed cigarettes."
"It's no big mystery, doctor. For a few dollars my mother was fucking Krauss." What Seymour said, he said flatly. Without emotion. It was a truth. Precise as the sum of the squares of a right triangle is equal to the square of the hypotenuse.
"If you want to examine--"
"Nothing to examine. Times were hard. Mr. Krauss was willing to pay."
"Next week, Seymour," Dr. Hasse said.
"Next week," Seymour repeated.
###
After his session with Dr. Hasse, Seymour walked from Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village, down Broadway to Battery Park. Where he stood and looked out at the upper New York bay. The harbor busy with boats carrying tourists to and from the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. Tugs pushed and pulled everything from garbage scows to very large container ships. Ferries scuttled to and from Staten Island. Where he lived. Since he was a small boy, Sonny loved the scene. His father brought him from Brooklyn to probably the exact spot where he stood. Or close to it, he wanted to believe.
His father was a stocky man with a cherubic face and gray eyes. He seldom spoke. They would spend an entire day together and his father would not have said more than ten words. Though a salesman--a diamond dealer--he did not have the salesman's gift of gab.
Seymour began to walk again. Toward the ferry. He made peace with each of his parents years ago. Though, as so often occurs, the two of them were already dead when it happened. He doubted it could have been otherwise. Their deaths, though twenty years apart, created the necessary refractions that were absent when they were alive.
###
Whenever the weather was good, Mrs. Kelly was on the stoop. Waiting for him. But he didn't like her. She smelled, an old lady's smell. Sour. Worse than his big bouba. But liked the penny she gave him.
Mrs. Kelly told him she lived with her daughter, Alice, who was married to Mr. Moran. And Francis Jr. and Mary were her grandchildren. Mr. Moran spent most of his time away from home. In the Veteran's hospital. He was a doughboy in the Great War. And suffered from shellshock.
"That happens when a body's brains get shook too much by the exploding shells," Mrs. Kelly explained.
"When I grow up, I wanna be a soldier. A general, maybe," Sonny said brightly.
"It's dirty work. An' death sits on your shoulder all the time."
Sonny became thoughtful. His little bouba had died. And he didn't remember her at all. What she looked like? How she talked? Was that how you died? People forgot about you. And that made you dead?
"With your brow all squinched up like that, you must be thinkin' about somethin' mighty important," Mrs. Kelly said.
He looked at her wrinkled face and her very white hair. "You're goin' to die soon, aren't you?"
She touched his cheek with her thin fingers. "Not immediately, lad," she said. "I hope I still have some time."
"You scared?"
After a few moments of silence, she said, "No more or less than another body."
The way she spoke--soft, yet dark. Like it was when his mother locked him in the closet. Goose bumps raced down his back and along his bare arms. He felt cold. Even though, a moment before, he was warm in the sun.
"I best be going in now," she said.
Sonny helped her to the door.
She leaned down and kissed him on the top of his head. "I love you, lad," she said.
"My penny?" he asked. Looking up at her.
She gave it to him.
He waited until she was inside. Before he ran down the street to the building where he lived.
"The next day she died," Seymour said. "She was sitting in her rocking chair and closed her eyes. That was all there was to it."
"That must have been a traumatic experience for you," Dr. Hasse commented.
Seymour did not answer immediately. And when he did, he cleared his throat before he spoke. "She was waked at home. My mother and I went. I remember going up to the casket and looking at her. She held the rosary in her hands. She didn't look as if she were sleeping. She looked dead. I leaned over and kissed her." He paused. As if to take a deep breath but didn't. And shook his head. "She was cold. Cold in a way that only a dead body is cold. Yes, I remember that."
For several moments the room was very quiet. And Seymour felt tired, very tired. He wondered why he was willing to spend money to dig into and around his past? He was almost seventy-five. Sooner than later his past would not matter.
"What does her death mean to you now?" Dr. Hasse asked softly.
Seymour closed eyes and opened them. "If you mean am I afraid of dying? The answer is no. But I am terrified of becoming a liability."
Dr. Hasse nodded. Laced his fingers and said, "You avoided answering my question."
Seymour shrugged.
"That's a fuck you, doctor Hasse answer."
"So be it," Seymour said. His voice so belligerent that he was aware of it. Up to this moment he maintained a patient-doctor relationship. Almost deferential. Hoping it would help him get to the root of his problem. But now he was angry!
"You still have ten minutes left," Dr. Hasse said.
"I'll pass," Seymour told him. And gripped the end of the armchair to pull himself up.
"Next Tuesday, the same time," Dr. Hasse said.
"Maybe," Seymour answered. He was at the door before he turned to look at the doctor. "I'm not sure this is worth my time."
"You've reached something--something that might be the reason why you started treatment."
"I'll call to let you know whether I'll keep my appointment," Seymour said. He stepped through the open door and closed it behind him.
###
The weather changed. The sun was replaced by clouds. It was colder too. A warm, spring day became cold and autumnal with the threat of rain.
Seymour walked, without having a particular destination. After a session, he was usually oblivious to everything around him. It took awhile--a couple of cups of coffee, maybe even a couple of doughnuts--for him to regain a sufficient sense of reality to go home. But this session left him angry. He didn't want coffee or anything else. And he didn't want to go home. He needed to get the anger flushed out. When he was younger, sex might have done it. Drinking. Now, it was stopped up. Inside. A constipation of fury!
Seymour went down on to a subway station. And realized where he had to go. He rode the D train all the way to Coney Island. The West Eighth Street station. And walked to the boardwalk in front of the Aquarium. It was cold. A wind was up. The air had a salt tang to it. And was filled with the sound of crashing surf. More than sixty years before the site was occupied by The Giant Racers. A bathhouse. Where his father and six other men rented a locker room for the summer. More summers than he could remember. It was the one place his father enjoyed. He and his cronies played pinochle, mostly. Sometimes gin rummy in the solarium. All of them were naked. They moved with the sun. The stakes were a penny a game. Never more than three cents. It was the depression. Money was hard to come by.
Of the six men, Seymour recalled the names of four: Mr. Han. Benuzia. Herman. And Ju-Ju, a nickname. Mr. Han was a barrel chested, gray haired man who worked as butcher. And frequently brought skirt steaks. Which were broiled on the live coals of the bathhouse furnace. Benuzia was dark skinned. Spoke with an accent. And sometime came to visit at the apartment. Herman was very thin. Had a moustache. And like his father, sold diamonds. Ju-Ju was blond haired. Younger than the other man. And prospected for gold in Alaska, so his father said.
His eyes watered and tears flowed down Seymour's cheeks. He turned. And looked at the ocean. Where the silver gray of the sky seamed with the dark steel gray of the ocean. Then, his eyes moved to the edge of the beach. Where the waves smashed white against the beach.
Seymour left the boardwalk and went down onto the sand. He walked to the edge of the beach. The breaking waves roared. There was--as there had been for the better part of a year--a sadness in Seymour. Almost too large to be confined by his body. And like the dead leaves of autumn, those seared dark or brown, the sadness whirled through his gut with cyclonic intensity. He felt the pull of the crashing waves and took two more steps. Closer to where the ocean's white froth rolled up on the brown sand.
Death was a way out. It was always a way out. And in death there would be release!
Seymour advanced another few steps. His shoes were wet, now. His feet sank into sand. The water made sucking sounds at his shoes before rolling back. He sank deeper into the sand. The next wave broke. Rushed up the beach wetting the bottom of his trouser legs. He walked into deeper water.
Suddenly, he heard someone shout, "Hey mister. Mister!
Seymour glanced over his right shoulder at the man.
"You don't want to fuckin' do that."
Seymour faced the incoming surge of waves.
"A big one can knock you down. And take you even if you don't want to go," the man shouted.
Seymour looked at the man again.
He gesticulated wildly. Practically jumped up and down.
The moment of choice came. And Seymour chose. He motioned to the man. Pulled his feet out of the sucking sand one at a time. And took several steps backward on to the dry beach.
The man came up to him. Shabbily dressed. Wizen with dark blue eyes. But not as old as Seymour.
"I seen ya from under the boardwalk," the man said.
"I somehow got lost," Seymour told him.
"Done that a couple of time myself. 'Till some son-of-bitch found me," he said. Laughing. A few of his upper front teeth were missing.
Seymour laughed too and offered his hand. "Well, thanks for finding me."
The man's hand was calloused and dirty.
"Got a fire goin' in a cut down oil drum. An' some hot coffee too," the man said. Pointing back up the beach where boardwalk created a shadowland below it.
"I can't refuse an offer like that," Seymour answered.
"The guys call me Tim," the man said.
"Seymour."
"Okay, now that we know each other let's go and have some of that coffee. It's colder than a witch's tit out here. Near the water."
Seymour nodded. And the two of them began to walk up the beach toward the boardwalk.
###
Before he left, Seymour gave Tim a twenty dollar bill. He could have given him much more. But twenty seemed right. Another day he'd come back. And give him real money. Enough to start a new life. If that was what he wanted. A very wealthy man, Seymour could easily do that. But Tim was grateful for the gift. And said, "Come by again. But not for the same reason. I might not be the son-of-bitch who stops you from getting all of your clothes wet."
They shook hands again. And Seymour walked out from under the boardwalk on to the street. He used his cellular to leave a message on Dr. Hasse's machine. He'd be there for the next session.
###
Seymour rode the train back to Manhattan. He stopped to purchase a new pair of shoes and socks before boarding the ferry for Staten island. Where he lived in a very large house on Todt Hill overlooking the Raritan Bay and the beginning of the open ocean.
He sat forward. Alongside of a window. A single blast of the ferry's fog horn signaled that the ferry was underway.
Seymour had amassed a substantial fortune by buying and selling companies. Ruthless, he often found himself embroiled in lawsuits. Most of which he won. Retired now, his bout with stomach cancer had considerably mellowed him. But he held few illusions about himself. And fewer about other people. He considered business "war." There were the victors and casualties. He was a winner because he never allowed himself to become bogged down either in sentimentality or ethics. But where his family was concerned, he was--as his wife Miriam often said--a softie. Completely indulging her and his sons, Jess and Paul. But in recent years critical of them. He often told Miriam he gave them too much. Let them do what they wanted. And as far as he could see they did damn little.
Seymour pursed his lips. A large container ship slid across the window. Bringing him out of his melancholy thoughts. He uttered a soft, but ragged sigh. He was a seventy-five year old man trying to come to terms with what he sarcastically referred to as his Geriatric Depression.
By the time the ferry bumped into the wooden pilings on each side of the slip, he was already walking toward the crowd of people waiting to debark.
###
"So, Tim saved your life," Hasse said. Pushing forward and resting his elbows on the desk.
"Yes. Probably. I'm still not sure whether I was wholly committed."
"You went to Coney Island to find your father, and when you couldn't find him--"
Seymour held up his hand. "I don't want your analysis, doctor. I know exactly where I went. And your whys don't really interest me." The office was warmer than usual. And smaller.
"More than a little belligerent, aren't you?"
Seymour stood up. And paced the width of the office twice. Stopped and looked at the doctor.
"Is it that difficult to speak about?"
Seymour didn't answer. He began to pace again. "You know what guilt is. Its origins. Its manifestations and its consequences. Am I right?" After the yes came with a nod, Seymour continued, "But suppose I tell you that a man can feel guilty for something he did not do?"
"Certainly, the guilt of omission is as real--"
Seymour stopped in front of the desk. Placed the palms of his hands on the edge of it. And leaned very close to the doctor. "You're giving me a stock answer." His tone betrayed his anger. "My son--Jess--killed three men."
Dr. Hasse pulled back.
"It grabbed me the same way," Seymour said. "And it hasn't let go." For a moment, he closed his eyes. And uttered a deep sigh. Slowly, he eased back. "Jess spoke about it as nonchalantly as he would have had he been talking about squashing bugs. A covert operation that went bad. And he killed one. Then, sometime later, went back and killed the other two."
"And that's what brought you here?"
"Absurd, isn't it? I mean, isn't it supposed to be the son who bears the sins of the father?"
"Neither is responsible for the other," Dr. Hasse breathed.
Seymour paced again. "But I am. And don't ask me how. But I am. I gave him something that enabled him to do it without the slightest bit of remorse." He stopped. "It doesn't make sense, does it? He did it. And I am so burdened with guilt that I have to come here."
"If you mean sense in terms of cause and effect, no. But it makes sense in terms of who and what you are."
"I'm a seventy-five year old man. Who no longer knows his own son. And that in itself is a terrible burden."
"What do you intend doing about it?" Dr. Hasse asked. Lacing his fingers together.
Seymour shrugged. Hopelessly. "All of it happened years ago in Eastern Europe. Before the Berlin Wall came down. It was a covert mission that had gone bad. Jesse said they deserved killing. Judge. Jury. And executioner. All rolled into one . . . Jess came over for a visit. Miriam wasn't home. We were in the kitchen. It was a cold rainy day. Late in the afternoon. I was having a cup of tea. I watched the rain splatter on the deck. For some reason, I started to speak about Mrs. Kelly. I told him how much the old lady meant to me. That I was with her when she died."
Dr. Hasse raised his eyebrows. "You never mentioned that. You said--"
"I was with her," Seymour repeated. And he settled on the chair next to Dr. Hasse's desk. "She was very old. Very tired. And had trouble breathing. Her daughter left the room. I was alone with her. All I had to do was cup my small hand over her mouth and nose."
"And did you?"
"Probably. To see what would happen. And I did. It almost took an entire lifetime. But I did see what happened."
"What do you think happened?"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Tell me what you think happened?" Dr. Hasse pressed.
"Jess happened." Seymour sighed so deeply his whole body shook. "My son, Jess, happened." He wept softly. Very softly. Then, he bolted up. And in a primal scream of agony shouted, "Jess happened!"
