A Heated Premonition Read online

  NEMEROFF:

  (AWKWARDLY) Uh, yeah.

  SOUND:

  ATKINSON STARTS CHIPPING AWAY AT THE MARBLE AGAIN.

  ATKINSON:

  It’s about the only thing that is cool today. Man, I can’t remember it ever being so hot. Can you remember it ever being so hot?

  NEMEROFF:

  I can’t. I really can’t. This is a beautiful piece of stone you’ve got here.

  ATKINSON:

  In a way it truly is.

  NEMEROFF:

  “In a way”?

  ATKINSON:

  Oh, the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish for, but unfortunately there’s a big flaw on the back, though I don’t expect you’d notice it right off.

  NEMEROFF:

  Oh, I doubt I would. I’m not really what you’d call a marble expert.

  ATKINSON:

  In the summer, a flaw in the marble is no problem, but wait until the winter comes.

  NEMEROFF:

  Winter?

  ATKINSON:

  Oh, yeah. Believe me, there’s nothing quite like frost to find the weak points in stone.

  NEMEROFF:

  Really? So what’ll you tell your customer?

  ATKINSON:

  What customer?

  NEMEROFF:

  The, uh, the relative of whoever this gravestone is for.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh, it’s not for a customer.

  NEMEROFF:

  Then, if you’ll excuse me for asking...

  ATKINSON:

  I’ll excuse you.

  NEMEROFF:

  What’s the point? Why carve a gravestone for- well, for nobody?

  ATKINSON:

  It’s for a trade show.

  NEMEROFF:

  A trade show.

  ATKINSON:

  That’s right. Death is big business. Morticians, casket builders, headstone makers, we all attend and present our wares.

  NEMEROFF:

  I had no idea there was such a thing. Not to be rude but a headstone’s a headstone, isn’t it?

  ATKINSON:

  Oh, you’d be surprised. There are many different kinds of marbles, some of ’em better suited to withstanding wind and rain, some are easier to work with than others. And fashions and tastes change from year to year – try taking a walk through a cemetery some time.

  NEMEROFF:

  Ah, no thanks.

  ATKINSON:

  (CHUCKLES) Squeamish, huh?

  NEMEROFF:

  I guess so, I never really thought about it before. I mean, I lost both my parents, but my sister took care of all the arrangements. When she died, I had her cremated.

  ATKINSON:

  We don’t use the C-word ’round here.

  NEMEROFF:

  Sorry.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh, it’s a valid choice, but a man’s livelihood is always kind of a sore point, don’t you agree?

  NEMEROFF:

  I don’t know; I’ve never been successful enough at anything to feel that way.

  ATKINSON:

  No shame in showing pride, it’s not like it’s a sin. (A BEAT) Oh, wait, actually, it is a sin.

  NEMEROFF:

  One of the seven big ones.

  ATKINSON:

  Still, it’s impossible not to feel satisfaction over something you’ve made with your own two hands. Take that bird-feeder, for instance.

  NEMEROFF:

  It’s nice.

  ATKINSON:

  It’s nothing ornate, like a gravestone, but- Whew!

  SOUND:

  ATKINSON STOPS BANGING.

  NEMEROFF:

  The heat, huh?

  ATKINSON:

  Bad today – real bad. A man’s not responsible for what he does in this kinda heat. So, you feel like telling me yet?

  NEMEROFF:

  Telling you what?

  ATKINSON:

  What it was that turned you pale when I first saw you. You still look a little queasy.

  NEMEROFF:

  I bet I do.

  ATKINSON:

  So?

  NEMEROFF:

  Well, it’s- I guess you could say I’m having a touch of deja-vu.

  ATKINSON:

  How so?

  SOUND:

  ATKINSON STARTS TAPPING GENTLY AT THE MARBLE.

  NEMEROFF:

  Well, somehow, I get the feeling I’ve experienced all this before – the fragrance of the flowers, our conversation about the marble, the heat– especially the heat.

  ATKINSON:

  All before, huh?

  NEMEROFF:

  That’s right. And yet I’ve never, ever been in this section of town before, let alone at this yard.

  ATKINSON:

  And we’ve never met before?

  NEMEROFF:

  Well... maybe. Your face is... sort of familiar.

  ATKINSON:

  Is it?

  NEMEROFF:

  It’s kind of hard to explain. Maybe I saw you once before somewhere. Maybe your face found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory.

  ATKINSON:

  Possible.

  SOUND:

  ATKINSON FINISHES TAPPING AND DROPS HIS TOOLS.

  ATKINSON:

  (SIGHS WITH SATISFACTION) There! I’m finally finished. Well, what do you think of it?

  NEMEROFF:

  (UNCERTAIN) Uh... I can’t really read upside-down.

  ATKINSON:

  It says: (READING SLOWLY) “In the midst of life we are in death. Born, January 16th, 1967.”

  NEMEROFF:

  (LOW, SHOCKED) January 16th?

  MUSIC:

  AN ACCENT - THEN UNDER.

  ATKINSON:

  Something wrong?

  NEMEROFF:

  What else does it say?

  ATKINSON:

  (READS) “He passed away very suddenly on August 20th, 2012.”

  NEMEROFF:

  (AFTER A BEAT) That’s today.

  ATKINSON:

  Yeah, well, we often use a present date on these exhibition stones.

  NEMEROFF:

  (HESITANT) Do you... do you... usually put a name on them, too?

  ATKINSON:

  Of course.

  NEMEROFF:

  Where is it?

  ATKINSON:

  You’re sitting on it. You have to get up to read it.

  NEMEROFF:

  Oh. OK, let’s see... (READS, SLOWLY AND WITH MOUNTING BUT CONTAINED HORROR) “Sacred to the memory of... James Franklyn Nemeroff.”

  MUSIC:

  A STATELY, SOMBER ACCENT - THEN FADES OUT.

  SOUND:

  BIRDS WHISTLE, CRICKETS CHIRP.

  NARRATOR:

  A cold shudder sweeps over Nemeroff – and he sits there in silence.

  ATKINSON:

  Whew. Hot. Hot. Even with the sun almost set, it’s still so damn hot. Got to get a new handkerchief – this one’s all wet from my sweat. Watch this.

  SOUND:

  DROPLETS OF WATER HIT THE GROUND AS HE WRINGS OUT THE HANDKERCHIEF.

  ATKINSON:

  See that? That’s a pint of me, right there.

  NEMEROFF:

  (UNEASY, TO ATKINSON) The name – James Franklyn Nemeroff. Uh, where – where did you – see that name?

  ATKINSON:

  Hm? Oh, I didn’t see it anywhere. I wanted some name, and I put down the first one that popped in my head. Better to have something a little unusual – you know, you see a thousand Smiths and Joneses.

  NEMEROFF:

  It’s really a very strange coincidence but – the name happens to be mine.

  MUSIC:

  IN AND UNDER.

  ATKINSON:

  Huh? Oh, yeah, right – joke. I get it.

  NEMEROFF:

  I’m not joking, Mr. Atkinson. I’m really not.

  ATKINSON:

  That’s– that’s your name? You’re, er, James, er, Franklyn, er..?

  NE
MEROFF:

  Nemeroff. Yes.

  ATKINSON:

  Well! (WHISTLES IN SURPRISE) And, uh, the dates?

  NEMEROFF:

  I can only account for the birth date. It’s correct.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh. That sure is spooky (NERVOUS GIGGLE).

  NEMEROFF:

  There’s something spookier.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh? What’s that?

  NEMEROFF:

  Well, I’m a sketch artist. I use pencil and paper. And this morning, I made a sketch. Of you.

  ATKINSON:

  A sketch of me?

  NEMEROFF:

  That’s right.

  ATKINSON:

  But you said you’ve never seen me before.

  NEMEROFF:

  That’s right.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh – (THE SIGNIFICANCE DAWNS ON HIM) oh.

  SOUND:

  SKETCH UNROLLED

  NEMROFF:

  Here. Take a look.

  ATKINSON:

  (EMITS A SOUND OF UTTER SERIOUSNESS AS HE PERUSES THE PICTURE. THEN, AN UNEXPECTED CHUCKLE) And to think - it was only the other day that I told Martha there were no such things as ghosts!

  NEMEROFF:

  Ghosts?

  ATKINSON:

  You know what I mean. Your expression earlier, my face in your sketch, your name on my gra-

  NEMEROFF:

  (CUTTING HIM OFF) Yes, yes, I understand. My, er, my name... (REACHING) I guess you probably heard it someplace.

  ATKINSON:

  (EAGER TO AGREE) Yes, yes, that’s it. And you must have seen me somewhere and then forgotten it!

  NEMEROFF:

  Yes (NOT CONVINCING). I must have, yes.

  ATKINSON:

  Were you at, er, uh, at the boat show at Navy Pier, um, last, er July?

  NEMEROFF:

  No. No, I’ve never been to the boat show in my life.

  ATKINSON:

  Oh. But you must’ve seen me somewhere.

  NEMEROFF:

  Sure. Must have.

  MUSIC:

  IN AND UNDER.

  NARRATOR:

  (Narration at first over the two of them talking and then an abrupt stop of their conversation) They offer each other suggestions where they might have met before – but they can’t connect the dots. Not surprising, really, because there are no dots to be connected. And so there they are - silent for some time. And they stand there looking at each other, and at the two dates on the gravestone - “Born, January 16th, 1967, passed away August 20th” - today.

  MUSIC:

  EPISODE SCORE.

  THRU TO THEME.

  FADE DOWN.

  ANNOUNCER:

  “FANGORIA’S DREADTIME STORIES” returns... after these words.

  COMMERCIAL BREAK.

  ANNOUNCER:

  Now back to “FANGORIA’S DREADTIME STORIES” and the dramatic conclusion of... “A Heated Premonition.”

  MUSIC:

  THEME.

  THRU TO:

  MUSIC:

  UNDER NARRATION.

  NARRATOR:

  Nemeroff has reached a point where he can think of nothing more to say to Mr. Charles Atkinson. Once he’d told him that he’d drawn a sketch of him on trial, without ever seeing him before in his life, small-talk seemed... well, smaller than ever.

  Nemeroff isn’t sure how sincere Atkinson means to be when he invites him inside his home for something to eat, but it is at least an attempt to break the tension, so he accepts.

  SOUND:

  NEMEROFF AND THE ATKINSONS EAT.

  ATKINSON:

  Martha, did you have to cook a hot meal in this weather? Couldn’t you have made -- a salad?

  MARTHA:

  When have you ever eaten a salad, Charles?

  ATKINSON:

  (CHUCKLES) You have a point. It’s just... this heat.

  NEMEROFF:

  Don’t you feel the heat, Mrs. Atkinson?

  MARTHA:

  I feel nothing at all, Mr. Nemeroff. Is the food to your liking?

  ATKINSON:

  (HIS MOUTH FULL) It’s delicious. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed a real home-cooked meal.

  Years.

  MARTHA:

  Years? My goodness.

  ATKINSON:

  It’s the pace of modern life, my dear. We’re lucky, you and I.

  SOUND:

  FADE OUT MEAL SOUNDS.

  MUSIC:

  IN AND UNDER.

  NARRATOR:

  Mrs. Atkinson is a strange little woman, pale as can be. She looks as though she’s lived her entire life indoors. Nemeroff thinks to himself that her face is quite interesting - not beautiful, but not unattractive either. In a different set of circumstances he would very much like to sketch her. She must suffer from poor circulation or some other affliction, because she is wearing layers of clothes in the God-awful heat. After the meal, Atkinson goes outside to smoke, and she and Nemeroff are left alone. From the small kitchen window Nemeroff can see Atkinson sitting outside on his stool, smoking, and he is quite sure Atkinson can see them both as they talk at the kitchen table.

  MUSIC:

  OUT.

  MARTHA:

  You’re my husband’s friend, Mr. Nemeroff?

  NEMEROFF:

  (CAGEY) That’s... right.

  MARTHA:

  You’re an artist?

  NEMEROFF:

  A sketch artist, yes. I like to use pencils.

  MARTHA:

  You’re very welcome in my home. I’m only sorry Charles hasn’t brought you here before.

  NEMEROFF:

  Why, thank-you Mrs. Atkinson, you’re kind to say so.

  MARTHA:

  You have a lovely voice, Mr. Nemeroff. Has anyone ever told you that?

  NEMEROFF:

  Why no, ma’am. No-one’s ever told me that.

  MARTHA:

  The cupboard behind you. You see that thin black book?

  NEMEROFF:

  Uh-huh.

  MARTHA:

  Could you get it out for me, please?

  NEMEROFF:

  Of course.

  SOUND:

  NEMEROFF GETS UP AND WITHDRAWS THE BOOK.

  NEMEROFF:

  Here you are.

  MARTHA:

  I would very much like to hear you read aloud from it.

  NEMEROFF:

  Me?

  MARTHA:

  You have such a lovely voice.

  NEMEROFF:

  (UNCERTAINLY) OK, if you... insist.

  MARTHA:

  Are you familiar with the book?

  NEMEROFF:

  (READS) “The Prophet,” by Khalil Gibran. No. Never heard of it.

  MARTHA:

  Please read.

  NEMEROFF:

  From anywhere?

  MARTHA:

  Yes.

  SOUND:

  HE FLIPS THRU A FEW PAGES.

  MUSIC:

  IN AND UNDER.

  NEMEROFF:

  Ahh... (CLEARS HIS THROAT. THEN READS) Then Almitra spoke, saying “We would ask now of Death.” And he said: You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; and like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate of eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the kind whose hand is to be laid upon him in honor. Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, then he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling? For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breat
hing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered? Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

  MUSIC:

  RISE GRANDLY -- A BRIGE – THEN OUT.

  NEMEROFF:

  Was that... was that all right?

  MARTHA:

  You read so beautifully Mr. Nemeroff. (DEEPLY, KNOWNINGLY) Thank you.

  NEMEROFF:

  I think I’ll, uh, check on your husband. He’s, uh-