"It's those left behind, that suffer most." The Leopard Son, 1996, Discovery Channel Pictures.
"Death leaves a heartache/no one can heal/Love leaves a memory/no one can steal." Poem on an Irish headstone.
The ape was dead. Of that Jack Driscoll had no doubt.
It was evident in how the elephantine primate's form wasn't looming over him when he'd tentatively stuck his head out the door that led out onto the 103rd floor's circular balcony, in how the remaining Helldivers were now long gone, in the anguished, hoarse scream of terminal agony that'd seemed to shake the very elevator shaft he'd been a little over halfway through ascending from the 86th floor. (It had been the third portion of his frantic elevator trip up through the world's tallest building, a highly modern and efficient-if perhaps unconventional and distinctly unromantic-way for this white knight to get to his particular damsel in distress.)
Most of all, it was evident in the countless great trickles and daubs and sprays of half-frozen, sticky blood that covered the sides of the spire and the rungs of the ladder he was currently climbing.
He tried hard to ignore the savage, freezing cold wind that made drawing breath almost feel like being throttled, the awareness of just how terrifyingly, dizzyingly high he was above the streets, and the agonizing possibility that some of the blood he felt under his hands each time he grabbed another rung might not necessarily be Kong's.
As far as he knew right now, Ann was still alive and up there. He had to grasp on to that-and to the fact that, as a certain Russian proverb went, hope was the last thing to die.
It was the same feverish focus and desperate, loyal determination that had seen him through the green hell of Skull Island's jungles and then all the way up Kong's mountain citadel, even after everyone else had given up on her and turned back.
He had to be there for her, and to finally tell her at last before the words escaped him again. No doubt she was devastated beyond measure.
As he reached the top of the blood-smeared and spackled ladder, what Jack saw made a mixture of utter relief and horror slash through his soul, his stomach seeming to plummet all the way down to the first observation deck.
There Ann was, alive and evidently unhurt, or at least not too badly, her back to him and standing far too precariously close to the edge in her heels, looking down as though the only thought on her mind was to follow the giant ape to the asphalt.
"Ann," he said softly, frightened that he'd startle her and make her slip, trying to tell her everything in just one word-imploring her to come away from the edge, to assure her it would be okay, to say that he was sorry, to let her know that he loved her.
On reaching the top of the maintenance ladder he took a small step forward and then stood as still as the metal itself, lungs and heart throbbing as he suddenly questioned whether this was such a good idea after all and she almost imperceptibly began to look over her shoulder.
Maybe she didn't want to see him or have him around. Maybe she hated his guts and his appearance here would be the final straw that pushed her into taking that last fateful step over the edge.
It wasn't just the arctic air that made the playwright's breath freeze in his lungs. It was also an inexpressible terror and horror.
Please, Ann, he begged in a silent prayer. Step back. Please. Just turn around and step back, for both yourself and for me. For the love of God and everything holy, don't you dare do this to me…
She turned agonizingly slowly, dazed, the wind ripping at her flaxen curls, her ivory face stained with tears and disbelieving. She stared at him as though she had no idea what to make of his sudden appearance, which had to be the last thing in the world she could've expected.
And then slowly, slowly as flowing molasses, a sparkling glimmer of belief in something she'd thought lost seemed to appear in those expressive, gorgeous blue eyes.
When the muscles in her calves delicately tensed and she began to take her first step, Jack's brain screamed at him to lunge, to make a grab for her in case his eyes were tricking him and she was actually moving toward the edge rather than him. But then the weight of her slender body was in his arms and every thought but complete relief was swept from his shuddering mind as her arms wrapped around him.
He swayed her gently from side to side in the icy wind, burying his angular face in her soft hair, breathing in her scent, his arms clasping around her like he just couldn't hold her tight enough or give her enough security. She hugged him back just as fiercely, her head resting in the bend of his thicker neck, not seeming to be too bothered by how she had to stand on her tip toes to do so.
He really had no idea what to do in a situation like this. No man had ever had to deal with it in the first place, after all. But he sensed that the best option was to just let her have something to grip at this end, while he muttered vague phrases of comfort to her in his droning voice for a couple minutes, until he was at last brave enough to risk releasing, hands still holding her arms.
To his surprise, her sorrowful lapis eyes were mostly dry, with only the hint of tears sitting in the corners. He recognized it as deep shock. Time to get her away from this awful, gruesome scene.
"It'll be okay Ann," he assured her gently. "We've got to leave now," he respectfully insisted.
She meekly allowed him to lead her over to the ladder, and carefully help her on to it first, worried that she might slip in her precariously dainty heels and mentally wincing on her behalf each time she touched a rung that now had a scarlet patch on it. At the bottom she waited morosely, patiently for him to descend, taking his right hand as soon as he rejoined her, her small fingers half vanishing in his grasp. He had to remind himself not to make his grip too tight. He didn't want to hurt her with that hand a second time.
They made their way down the second ladder, into the now bullet-pockmarked and half-demolished upper observation deck. They walked among the devastation in a traumatized silence, Jack making sure that she safely made her way among the shattered panes of glass littering the floor like crystal triangles. But at least they were somewhat out of the frigid wind now.
And Ann still didn't speak. She continued to walk in a dazed, rickety fashion over to the first of the trio of elevators they had to travel in, half-pressing her body against his as he pressed the button for the 86th floor.
She didn't say a word when the doors opened and they then switched to the elevator that would then bring them down from the 86th floor to the 80th, walking out alongside him like a sleepwalker when it came to a stop.
It was only when they started making their way towards the main elevator that she spoke, her voice nearly making Jack jump like a goat brushing against an electric fence in the tense, thick silence as she half-turned her still downcast face to him.
"Thank you," she thickly whispered. "You came looking for me, didn't you Jack? My amazing, heroic fellow," she managed to vapidly smile before switching her beaten gaze back to the tile again.
Not willing as yet to risk upsetting her somehow with any words-and there were really none to say-he simply nodded his head and gave what he hoped was a warm, if weak, smile of his own by way of response.
The main lift was still waiting there for them, for better or for worse-no one else had dared or been allowed to enter the building since Kong had chosen to make his last gallant stand up there.
The elevator ride from the Empire State Building's 80th floor down to its grand three-story lobby is surprisingly fast for such a vertical distance, only a little more than a minute and a half. Yet for Jack, the ride down seemed every bit as excruciatingly long and slow on the way down as it was coming up.
He dreaded what they'd be facing at the bottom for Ann's sake more than anything. He couldn't help from repeatedly glancing from the twin steel doors back over to her, checking on her, making sure she was still there and at his side, as utterly stupid as it sounded to his own mind. She was holding his hand, and they were in a damn elevator for Christ's sake. Where was she going to go?
As they passed the 73rd floor, he thought he noticed her shivering and frowned in dismay, softly running his free left hand down her left shoulder and arm. Good God, she was as cold as ice in that skimpy, thin dress, and probably from shock too. Breaking his hold for a moment with a little reluctance, he shrugged his greatcoat from his wider frame and placed it firmly around her bare shoulders, Ann wasting no time in gratefully sliding her arms through the sleeves. It was so big that it almost enveloped her, made her seem more like she was wearing some sort of cloak or shroud.
"Thank you, I needed that," she acknowledged again from between blue-tinged lips, still not ready to fully meet his gaze. Even as she said the appreciative words, her hand was searching his out again and grasping it, her grip seeming to tighten and her palm seeming to get ever slicker from a cold sweat with each floor they got closer to the lobby.
It reminded him of the way she'd held his hand in the longboat, so trustingly, during their first trip from the good ship Venture to Skull Island's craggy beach. And he'd let her down in the end, failed to protect her from being snatched away by those wicked natives.
Was Ann feeling the same way right now about the beast they'd sacrificed her to? Oh yes, he knew beyond a doubt that she was.
When he felt the elevator grind to a halt and the doors opened with a ding at ground level, they both took a deep breath in tandem and stepped out the same way, heading across the vast lobby to the front doors.
Jack's gait faltered as they neared the exit, already seeming to feel the eyes of the world on both of them. The solider boys that had tried to prevent his entry were gone. But this wasn't going to be fun or pretty, that much was clear.
There still had to be a good deal of reporters out there, circling around like vultures and probing like prosecution lawyers as they tried to rake in the final gold nuggets from this event for their respective story, that extra titillating aspect which would make their paper be the one the public chose to read all about it in and pay the most attention to.
Media attention of all stripes was something that he was familiar with already, that he knew he could endure and withstand, even in his present shaken and stressed state. It was a music he could probably manage to grudgingly face.
But Ann, no how. They'd be on her in an instant if they went out that way.
And then there was the fact that she'd also come out to clap eyes on the body of Kong, sprawled out and bloodied on the sidewalk in Lord knew what sort of condition after his 108 story plummet from the sky. He thought with an internal cringe of how Haldane had written in his essay On Being The Right Size about what the respective fates of various creatures chucked into a three thousand foot deep mineshaft would be.
A mouse would survive. A rat would be killed. A man would be a broken heap. A horse would literally splash on impact, like a watermelon. Kong was most likely splashed so, so gorily all over this part of 35th Street now. In spite of what the ape had tried to do and done to the playwright, Ann at least certainly didn't need to see that.
But she seemed to have other plans. As he found himself slowing, he felt her hand gently slither out from his as she continued to stride forward with a demeanor of resigned inevitability, heels clacking across the marble and echoing in the lobby's opulent vastness.
"Ann," he called softly after her, almost pleading with her not to subject herself to this, "We can find another way, give these reporters the slip. Go out the back doors or something."
She glanced at him and shook her head in a dopey, rather uncoordinated manner, apparently only half listening. As she semi-robotically continued onward to the doors and the dawn light that shone through them, Jack gave a resigned, fortifying sigh and caught up in a few long strides, sliding his left hand back around her right one.
Just before he opened the doors to the wider world, he asked her simply, softly, "Are you ready Ann?"
Huddled in his wool coat, she weakly sighed and faintly shook her head. "I don't think I could ever be ready. But here we go."
In the street outside, the crowd had thinned somewhat. A lot of the reporters had left, deciding that there was really nothing more to be seen or discussed here and were now either headed over to other areas of the city where Kong had made his presence felt-he couldn't help but wonder if any of them had come across the cab he'd commandeered as yet-or eagerly attempting to be the one who got their story out in print first at their offices.
Both the regular and some mounted police officers had erected barricades, and had more or less succeeded at last in getting the herds of gawking civilians behind them. They seemed just about as at a loss and confused about the whole awesome, surreal situation as everyone else, simply ambling around, trying to keep people away from the great shaggy body, steadying and calming their horses when they became jittery or just idly gossiping and speculating with the Tommies that remained.
What exactly did you do with the mortal remains of an eleven ton gorilla anyway? He guessed they'd probably bring a logging truck or something over here in due time, then use either a huge winch or crane to raise the giant corpse onto it before promptly whisking Kong's body off to the Museum of Natural History to be poked and prodded at by the awed scientists.
When she first passed through the doors and disengaged her hand from his, no one seemed to initially take notice of Ann, separating from him to glide over to the fallen king of Skull Island like a pale wraith, like some type of angel of mourning, his borrowed black trench coat only further adding to the funereal impression.
A part of his mind insisted that he should be there with her, help her to cope. But instinct, a more than healthy respect, and above all, the fresh, beyond panicked memories of fear and being helpless forced him to stay at a prudent distance, even though he understood that the possessive ape had now been destroyed, an inert hill of flesh incapable of crushing so much as a mouse.
Most people in the vicinity were too busy beating their gums, gossiping, and theorizing about this whole bizarre incident as they repeatedly glanced and pointed at the building's summit to even feel her brush past them with the misty grace of a lioness. One kindly looking middle-aged mounted cop, perched on a handsome blue roan mare that was lightly stamping her feet and just generally fidgeting at the weird new scent from the ape, ears half drawn back, drew to attention and bothered to softly inquire "Are you all right Miss?"
But Ann walked past him like she hadn't heard a word.
Hesitantly, the cop grabbed his horse's reins with one hand even as he prepared to dismount with the other and follow her.
At that point, Jack decided to intervene, politely assuring the officer, "Don't worry, she's okay. We're both okay, but we're also just really shaken and jittery right now, so please give us a few."
The cop gave a quick nod and grunt of sympathetic acknowledgement as he shifted his weight back into the saddle and backed the blue roan away, saying no more.
As Ann silently walked up to Kong's mountainous body, her eyes defeated and vacant as she stared at him, hushed whispers and light elbowing began to seep through the crowd as people started taking note. As her shaking hand reached out to tentatively take some strands of coarse hair in her fingers an astonished hush began to settle over the gathered crowd, turning soon to an enchanted silence, every fella and dame fully riveted and aware that they were in the presence of something extraordinary and eerie and incredible beyond the power of any words.
Slowly, she circled around the great fallen figure, lightly trailing her hands through the bloodied, rough black and silver fur, taking it all in, as if trying to give tenderness and comfort where it was no longer possible. She halted for a few long moments at one of his enormous leathery outstretched hands, staring inscrutably at her former carriage, clearly remembering the wonder of it all, how tender he'd come to be toward her with those fingers, how it had felt to be safe in there.
Finally she dared to move to his aged, gnarled face. And despite the limp, twisted look of his obviously broken body, his expression was one of peace. For that much at least, Jack was vicariously thankful.
There is something about regarding a huge, grand animal like an elephant or a lion or a giraffe as it lies dead which makes the creature almost seem strangely smaller somehow, far smaller than it appeared in the full majesty of its life. Perhaps it is simply because the creature can no longer sit or stand up, reveal its full imposing height to the observer, or maybe since it can't perform even a small physical action that gives at least a hint of its awesome power and confidence.
Or just maybe, the grandeur of one of nature's giants is powered and projected every bit as much by its wild, vital spirit as much as its already impressive physical form. And once that spirit, that proud and powerful energy has left the eyes and body, then the corpse just seems to shrivel in on itself, like an empty, drying husk.
To Ann, Kong seemed to have undergone a similar transformation in his death as she mournfully contemplated and ran her quaking fingers over his hill of a body. No one would ever be able to see him like she and Jack had ever again.
It had been so hard, such a struggle to find the courage to not only face his body, but to lay her hands on it like this, because she'd known that if and when she did so, there could be no more denial. The contact would make the reality of his demise and her loss irrevocably true.
All the times he'd protected and saved her. If only she could've done the same for him!
She was dimly aware on some level that the collective crowd was intently watching her now, a voyeuristic, faceless, unfeeling and gawking mass that cared nothing for magnificence, for the purest and clearest of bonds. But right now, the actress was oblivious to them as she approached his face, looked into the closed eyes and flared, motionless nostrils, slowly reaching out to touch his jutting lower canine, and then run her right hand across his huge scarred cheek, tender even as she fought the tears.
There had been a sort of awful inevitability about all this, ever since he'd been successfully drugged and loaded onto the tramp steamer, Ann knew. But she was still no less devastated.
Perhaps, she reflected, a barrage of bullets and having her by his side while he died in battle was preferable to slowly perishing in solitude, humiliated and dying from a broken heart and broken spirit. But why did he have to die in such an obscene and offensive way? Why God?!
But now it couldn't be changed until the day cats learned to make friends with dogs. It was over.
As she continued to stroke the face of her incredible friend and guardian, she found herself allowing the corners of her mouth to turn up into a small, watery smile. This had been a good idea after all, a badly needed course of action. She couldn't walk away without coming to terms first. She had to bid him farewell.
And she could now, against all odds and to her flabbergasted surprise, look forward to love and partnership in her life once more, thanks to Jack's timely appearance. He couldn't have picked a time or a place that he was more needed if he'd tried.
She would never forget Kong. Could never forget him. Dreams and memories would bring him back.
But even through the heartbreak that was enveloping her, gnawing at her soul, straining to be released, she had a dim understanding that this period of mourning would pass too in time. Her life was simply going to change, that's all.
There is a vast difference between suffering a loss and being liberated by it. And Ann had the wisdom to recognize that she was being let go to wander a new path.
But then she could think nothing more as the voyeurs suddenly broke into action.
All hell broke loose, just like Jack Driscoll had feared, known it would, as he raced for his beleaguered angel.
Seemingly jolted out of their hypnosis, the remaining reporters and photographers leapt into remorseless action, crowding forward like the vultures had around the poached impala carcass. Flash bulbs fired like guns, questions came at them from every direction, people shoved and rammed and pushed each other to get closer to this strange woman who truly seemed to care for this fallen, savage monster. Beauty and the Beast come to life!
"Are you Ann Darrow, Miss?"
Are you the real Ann Darrow, Miss?"
"What happened up there, Miss?"
"Did he hurt you, Miss?"
"Could you look this way, Miss?"
"Miss Darrow?"
"What would you like to say to the brave pilots that rescued you from the beast, Miss?"
"What is the nature of your relationship with this ape, Miss?"
"Miss Darrow?"
"Miss?"
"Miss?"
And now the violating, damned questions were being flung at him too.
"Were you just up there with Miss Darrow, Mr. Driscoll?"
"Did the ape try to take a poke at you, or was he already dead when you showed up, Mr. Driscoll?"
"Is it true that you courageously led the ape away from his rampage in Times Square in a taxi cab, Mr. Driscoll?"
"How does it make you feel to see your dame showing affection towards this violent beast?"
"What does it feel like to be the real-life version of one of the heroes you've created for the stage so often before, Mr. Driscoll?"
"Mr. Driscoll?"
"Sir?"
"Sir?"
"Mr. Jack Driscoll?"
"Jack?"
Ann appeared stunned and startled by the sudden, brutal explosion of activity and prying questions, almost as confused and taken aback by the surging flurry of reporters as Kong himself had been back at the theatre. Flash bulbs illuminated her pale, shocked, tearful face and she blinked rapidly, looking so much like a female version of The Great Gatsby's owl-eyed man as she mentally tried to get a grip on what was going on.
To see those heartless pigs callously subjecting his angel to this bullshit at such a helpless, vulnerable time made Jack furious beyond words, and he charged in, at her side in an instant as he roughly shoved one reporter aside, then another, clotheslined a third, and then bellowed at a fourth, "Back off you son of a pigl! Back off before I make you have to eat through a straw for a month!" He wanted to strangle them all with their neckties.
He fiercely pulled Ann tightly to his chest, trying his best to shield her from the questions and flash cameras the same way he had from the natives, his eyes darting around for any possible avenue of escape. The chance of an out didn't seem likely anytime soon.
His voice roared out over the din of the intrusive, crushing, self-centered mob like an embattled tiger's.
"For cripes sake, don't you miserable jackals have any decency or mercy in you?! We both nearly just got killed tonight, for the love of God! Give us space and let us be, you bastards!"
His enraged pleas galvanized the NYPD officers, and almost before it could register in his mind, four of the coppers were there with him and Ann, two on foot, two on horseback, driving the reporters back with brandished nightsticks and the imposing force of the equines, clearing a space and a path. It was much appreciated and a pleasant surprise.
And over the sounds of protesting reporters, of remorseless questions and thudding bangs of flash bulbs came another, equally welcome and unexpected surprise for the playwright. It was a sharp whistle, quickly followed by two familiar male voices shouting his name. He turned hurriedly, trying to keep Ann securely in his grasp.
And there, several dozen yards away in the throng, bobbing up and down desperately and waving his arms in an attempt to be noticed in a great mass of men that were mostly taller than him, was Carl Denham.
Far more easily noticed was the figure of his brother Douglas, also hailing the playwright, jade eyes wide underneath his Trilby hat. God, was he ever a sight for sore eyes!
They were both shouting at Jack, hurriedly beckoning them in their direction.
To see his brother there for him and here to help out was a touching, wonderful relief for Jack. Carl though, was a different matter.
As much as he was aware that Douglas didn't exactly think highly of what Ann had done to his big brother after Kong's capture, and that Carl was likely the absolute last person in the world that his angel wanted to be exposed to right now-hell, the same went for him too, quite honestly-Jack was pragmatic, and didn't see that they really had a choice.
Seconds before plunging into the packed, mobbing crowd, Ann clinging to his chest, Jack gave each member of the quartet of cops standing around them a silent, pointed glance.
He didn't have to ask for their help. They just all gave a neutral nod in understanding, letting the writer know that they would take care of things.
Like icebreakers proceeding a battleship, the mounted officers rode into the crowd first, dispersing the gawkers while the beat cops flanked him and Ann, keeping even the most persistent reporters and curiosity seekers at bay as Jack made his way towards his brother and the producer. When he was finally within thirty feet of his goal, Jack gratefully told the coppers, not bothering to look over his shoulder, "Thanks so much you good fellas. We'll be just fine from here."
"You're welcome," he heard at least two of the officers reply, and he clearly saw one of the mounted cops give him both a smile and of all things, an actual salute, before turning his horse and heading back into the crowd.
When they reached them, Douglas rushed forward and swept both him and Ann up into his arms, mirroring the same, deep, joyous relief that his brother had just displayed towards the former actress with a similar crushing embrace not even fifteen minutes before.
"You brave, huge sap," Douglas exclaimed as he pulled away from Jack after a few long moments. His voice was a harsh, accusing whiplash, but also shuddering with thankfulness and tender. "You stupid, courageous, suicidal, noble son of a bitch, what were you thinking Jack! No, tell me later," he dismissed, holding up his hand. "I think I know anyway, and thank sweet baby Jesus and Mother Mary that you're somehow still alive!"
"I'm awfully glad about that myself," Jack replied as he felt a wry grin twist the side of his mouth. "And great to see you too Douglas."
"Come on," a harried Carl insisted. "We can have reunions later fellas," he told them even as he quickly ushered them to where Douglas's gold 1930 Oldsmobile was parked.
As he switched his gaze back to the producer, Jack noticed that Denham was visibly bleeding from the nose and upper lip, had a spreading bruise on his jowly chin, and was walking with a distinctly stiff-legged gait that certainly made it seem an awful lot like he'd just been kicked in the balls.
Obviously his younger brother hadn't been able to contain himself from knocking the lying creep to the ground on first sight. But it all seemed forgotten for the moment as Carl opened the back door and Jack allowed him to shepherd him and Ann inside as Douglas started to circle around the front bumper to the driver's door.
"Yeah," Douglas agreed as he slid inside. "Let's scram before the media jackals work themselves into even more of a frenzy."
As soon as Carl had jumped into the front seat and shut his own door, shrinking away from a stone-faced, teeth-clenched Douglas as far as he prudently could, Douglas Driscoll took no prisoners as he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, and his big brother was extremely grateful for it. At least half a dozen reporters came very close to becoming speed bumps underneath the Oldsmobile's wheels, jumping or even tumbling out of the way at the very last second when it became very clear that Jack's brother-the good natured, compassionate, respectful, pain alleviating doctor-was in no mood to be trifled with.
The playwright only allowed himself to relax slightly when he saw that the last few reporters were abandoning the chase, slowing to an exhausted stop in the rearview window and hunching over to catch their breath as the car sped away from them. He then dared to release his fierce and protective grip on Ann somewhat, his arm slipping more gently around her shoulders as she laid her head against him.
The sound of their panting filled the car.
"Thanks so much for showing up," Jack told his brother, with a definite sigh of relief.
"You're more than welcome," Douglas replied. "You're okay, aren't you Black Jack?"
"I suppose," Jack lightly shrugged. "But how in the world did you know where to find us?"
Douglas gave a knowing, sardonic raspy laugh at the rearview mirror.
"How did I know Black Jack? More like how could I NOT know! After the tale of horror and woe you told us on your first night back about the ape and Skull Island…well, the minute I heard the emergency bulletin about Kong flying the coop, I had more than a hunch that Ann here would get wind of it and go in search of him."
"Once that happened and he got his paws on her," he went on, explaining his reasoning, "you'd hear about it yourself in short order one way or the other, and being the fool for risks that you've recently proven yourself to be, follow that gorilla to kingdom come if need be for her. And once I heard that the giant ape was seen climbing the Empire State Building, I knew right where to go after that. I've got your number Jack," he grinned crookedly into the mirror.
"Looks like you sure do," Jack replied, face shifting into the same expression. "As for you…" he went on, impassively turning his attention to Carl, "what are you doing here?"
"To help, believe it or not. It's the least I can do for you two," the producer replied rather grimly, not meeting their gazes.
But then, Jack saw Carl tilt towards the center console and give them both a slightly pained, inscrutable look over his stock left shoulder. His brown eyes settled on Ann for a moment or two, a supremely uncomfortable and guilty expression clouding his eyes before he tore away again, giving a wavering breath and vacantly staring down the road. He knew he'd wronged them terribly.
Glancing at Ann himself, Jack saw that the dam had finally broken, the tears running anguished and silent down her cheeks, broken only by the odd tearing, stifled sob. He pulled her a little closer, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair, stroking her back and feeling so inadequate by knowing that he could offer nothing but a shoulder to cry on. Literally.
He wanted so badly to say the three words. Was more than ready. Desperately needed to. But now wasn't the right time in the least.
