The Color of Dying

by Carlos Colon

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed that hard, but I’d been willing to bet that Dominic would have had something to have done with it. He opened his eyes, still smiling. Dominic hadn’t smiled at me in over twenty-seven years.

  “Do it,” said Dominic.

  I knew what he meant but I stalled. “Do what?”

  His smile faded. “Do it, Nick.”

  “Dominic—”

  The mood quickly turned. “¡Mira, hijo de puta! You think I want to be like you? Stake me, damn it!”

  I knew he was right but couldn’t wrap my mind around doing it—not to him. “No way, Dominic, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

  “For what?” he growled. “What are they going to do?”

  Again, he was right. What was taking him to the hospital going to accomplish? What kind of questions would he have to answer? And what would happen if he died and turned right there in the hospital?

  A tear crept out from the corner of my eye, a new, unfamiliar feeling. “Dominic, please...”

  “¡Empujalo en mi pecho, maricón!” Like I said before, he now had the venom of two different members of our species in him. On top of that, there was also Gunder’s serum, which has traces of the organism that lives in us. “Nicky, I want to be with God. Do this for me and maybe God will forgive you for what you’ve become.”

  No chance of that, Dominic. I’ve taken lives. Most of them were scumbags, but a few of them, like me, were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. They might have been tainted enough in my eyes that I could rationalize my feeding, but they were lives, and they weren’t mine to take.

  I pulled out my stake and tentatively pressed the pointed end against his heart. So now Aida and Penny are going to have to lose their father, too. And what about Artie and Ramona, they lived this long to see both of their children die within less than a month? You should have left it alone, Dominic. There was nothing to prove. I was dead. You should have left it that way. Now you’re not going to see how awesome the Mets are going to be next year with that tremendous pitching staff, you fucking idiot.

  After nodding his approval, Dominic took hold of my wrist. “I know you loved her, Nicky. She knew too.”

  It was all I needed. For that brief moment, he was talking to Nicky, his brother-in-law, not a child of Satan.

  Dominic closed his eyes and went into prayer.

  “¡Dios mìo! ante el trono de tu adorable Majestad me postro pidiéndote la última de todas las gracias: una feliz hora de muerte. Muchas veces, en verdad, hice mal uso de la vida que me diste; pero a pesar de ello te ruego, me concedas la gracia de terminarla bien y—,”

  I didn’t let him finish the prayer.

  I thought it would be better doing it while his mind was distracted. His stunned gasp filled the barren corridors of Greenwood as I pushed the stake deep into his heart with both of my hands. His eyes then opened to see tears moistening the cracked flesh underneath my eyes. His chest heaving, Dominic struggled to take his last breath, with eyes fixed on the Filipino blade sticking out of my jacket.

  He nodded.

  I knew what I had to do.

  37

  The morning sun glaring in through the bathroom window highlights my tousled hair in the reflection on the mirror. Three years ago, I said, fuck it, and stopped dyeing it. Who do I need to impress anymore? I’m married to the same fantastic woman, the only one that I will ever love, for over forty years now. Let the white hair shine proudly.

  Damn, I’m sixty-four today, just like the Beatles song.

  Will Stefanie still need me? Will she still feed me?

  Stefanie calls from the kitchen downstairs. “Honey, are you dressed yet? The kids are already on their way.”

  Holy shit! The alarm clock on the night table reads 12:20 p.m. I never sleep this late. Even as a renewal-collecting, semi-retired regional manager that doesn’t have to report somewhere every morning, I never get up past breakfast time. I guess I stayed up too late watching the Abbott and Costello marathon on the Nostalgia Channel.

  Walking downstairs, the aroma of Stefanie’s stew teasingly fondles my nasal passages. I wished she’d make it more often instead of just when family comes over. I asked her once if she’d teach me the recipe so I could make it myself and she refused.

  “What?” I asked, thinking she was kidding.

  “No,” she said. “That is a recipe only to be shared with the women in the family.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No, boca de caca, Mami passed it on to me and I passed it on to Jessie.”

  “What about Davey? That’s not fair to Davey.”

  “When he gets married, I’ll teach it to his wife.”

  That could be a while. Davey’s been enjoying the major-league lifestyle. And with the pretty good season he’s had this year at Cleveland as a backup infielder, that day might not come too soon. His contract is up and he’s a free agent, which means he might be able to land himself a nice little multi-year deal with another team.

  Damn, that stew smells good! Happy Birthday to me! And though I love following that scent into the kitchen, there is another scent that I love so much more.

  “Honey, I’m cooking,” says Stefanie as I bury my face in her hair.

  She’s been working hard all morning preparing for our family, making me feel a tiny tinge of guilt for not helping her out. Very tiny. Still, I gotta try and fake it. “You should have woken me up. I could’ve helped.”

  She smiles that knowing-I’m-full-of-shit smile. “It’s okay, Abbott. I’ll give you a pass today. It’s your birthday.”

  She’s wearing her grey, wavy hair a little shorter these days. She’s also put on a couple of pounds. But to me, she’s still the girl I met at the college library.

  “Well, you know I had to wait until they did Niagara Falls.” That’s my favorite Abbott and Costello routine. I still laugh my ass off when I see that.

  “What are you talking about? You have that whole collection on DVD. You can watch that whenever you want.”

  “Yeah, I know but—”

  The doorbell. I can hear the grandkids.

  “Oh my God, they’re already here. And look at you. You didn’t even shave yet.” Stefanie hands me a tray full of cold cuts, vegetables and dip. “Here, take this out to the living room and answer the door.” Well, we all know who the boss around here is, may the festivities begin.

  As soon as I dutifully carry out her orders and open that door, it’s going to be like that Marx Brothers movie where all the people spill out of the closet. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Happy birthday, Daddy!” says Jessie, throwing her arms around me and kissing my stubbly face. “Ew, Daddy! Shave!”

  My ten-year-old grandson Pauly marches in right behind his mom so his grandpa can muss up his hair. I have no idea why I do that. It must be something grandpas do. “Hey, big guy!”

  My granddaughter Jamie steps in, not even a teenager yet and already almost as tall as her mother. Man, they grow fast. At least she doesn’t complain about kissing Grandpa’s stubbly cheek. “Happy birthday, Grandpa!”

  Jesse’s husband Brad greets his former sales manager with a friendly hug. “How’re you doing, Boss?” He was a cocky college graduate fifteen years ago when he started working with us at Atlantic Indemnity. He met Jessie at a company picnic and she fell head over heels. They’ve been together ever since.

  “So, superstar, how are things back at the office?” Not that I really give a shit. All I care about are my renewals. He was my top sales rep, though, when I brought him into the company—Leaders Conference every year.

  “It’s getting busy,” says Brad. “Of course, if you’d show up more than two or three times a month, you’d know that.”

  “Hey, watch that fresh mouth of yours, kid. I can still get your ass fired.”

  Dominic’s 2008 Ford Explorer pulls up to the driveway behind Jessie and Brad’s car. He loves that SUV and still has the damn thing looking
like it’s brand new, even with it having, like, 240,000 miles on it.

  “Get that old piece of crap out of my driveway.” I love breaking his balls.

  Patti steps out on the passenger side. “Happy birthday, Nicky!”

  “You wish you could get the miles I get out this thing,” says Dominic, stepping out from the driver’s side to join me and Patti at the front of the car. They’ve been through a lot of ups and downs those two, but here they are, still together. “Hey Nick, your boy here yet?”

  “Look behind you.”

  “How about that,” says Dominic, as Davey’s Mercury Cougar rolls in. “All you gotta do is mention him. Let’s team up on him, Nick. Now that he’s a free agent, maybe we can talk him into coming to the Mets.”

  “Damn right. He’d be closer to the family, too.”

  Davey steps out with a present in his hands. “Hey, Pop! Happy birthday!” He greets Aunt Patti with a kiss and Uncle Dom with a hug. Pop gets a big hug, too. “Come inside, Pop. I want to show you something.”

  “Never mind that,” says Dominic. “You’re gonna sign up with the Mets this year, right?”

  Davey laughs. “Uncle Dom, you’re starting already?”

  “That’s right, I’m starting,” says Dominic. “The Mets were in the World Series this year. If you were with them, not only would you have been home, but you would have been in the World Series. I’m tired of having to wait until you play the Yankees to go see you.”

  What? I don’t believe this.

  “Dominic, are you serious?” Artie and Ramona’s old Buick pulls up behind Davey’s car.

  Dominic gets defensive. “Hey man, I offered to drive them. But you know how stubborn that old prick is.”

  “It’s true, he doesn’t listen,” says Patti. Wow, Patti defending Dominic? Now that’s rare.

  I shake my head at the two of them. “Jesus, he’s 88 years old.”

  Stepping out on the driver’s side, Artie’s still got that spring in his step but on the passenger’s side it a competition between me and Dominic to open the door for Ramona.

  “Just one will do,” laughs Ramona.

  Dominic beats me to the car and helps his mother out. “Como esta, Mami.”

  All of us take turns receiving warm hugs and kisses from Mama Torres before stepping back into the house where the decibel level rises as everyone tries to talk over one another. Normally, the grandkids are the loudest, with the lady chatter running a close second. Today, I think the grand prize goes to Dominic, ranting that cheap bastard Met owner Fred Wilpon better offer Davey a contract. Davey nods, listening with only one ear as he works on connecting something to my stereo.

  It’s a good time to sneak upstairs and shave, although I’m enjoying watching the scene in the living room. Davey was just here this past September when the Indians played the Yankees, and Jessie only lives twenty minutes away in White Plains. As for Dominic and his folks, they live the next town over in Scarsdale, so it’s not like we don’t see each other that often. But it never gets old having everyone come together like this.

  “Pop, come here, let me show you.”

  So much for me sneaking off to shave.

  “Come on, honey.” Stefanie accompanies me towards Davey at the stereo. I know they’re now called home entertainment centers but to me they’re still stereos.

  “Is that—?” Antiquated as I might be, I recognize the device in Davey’s hand.

  “That’s right, Pop, I’m bringing you out of the Stone Ages.” Davey places a brand new I-pod in my hands.

  “It looks like my iPhone.”

  “Similar, Pop, but here you can store your whole music collection.”

  “He’s forcing you to join the rest of the world,” says Stefanie. She already has one of those Nano things where she listens to reggaeton, bachata, and Marc Anthony.

  The cord to the baseball-card-sized device is hooked up to the stereo. “You realize I have no idea how to work this thing, right?”

  “Pop, it’s easy. Check it out.” Davey points to the screen. “You see that little arrow? Just press that.”

  “Okay.”

  Thick bass notes from a familiar tune drape over my shoulders like a warm blanket. Stefanie smiles with that little twinkle in her eye.

  All these years and she still melts me. “May I have this dance, Señora Negrón?”

  Together.

  In each other’s arms.

  Our cheeks softly rubbing against one another.

  Roberta Flack’s voice.

  The opening lines of our wedding song.

  Swaying slowly with my wife, I recall the night, over forty years ago—the blonde singer in the sparkling, way-too-tight purple dress and her whiny monotone voice mangling the lyrics. Hey, what do you expect when you let Artie hire the band? Now he and Ramona are watching us, fondly remembering that night, as well—although Artie probably remembers the singer’s ass a little more fondly.

  Jessie tilts her head and makes that “aww...” sound women like to do.

  “Forty-four years,” says Artie. “Seems like such a long time ago.”

  “Forty-four years was a long time ago,” cracks Brad.

  “Shit, am I that old?” says Dominic.

  I reply with a quick, “Yes!” Even during a moment like this I can’t resist breaking his balls to get a laugh out of the room.

  My laugh makes Stefanie back her head away. “Honey, you’re laughing in my ear,” she says, playfully hitting me on the chest.

  I bring her to me again. “Get over here,” I say, closing my eyes and resting my head on hers, moving slowly to the soft hum of the bass and taking in the peaceful scent of her hair.

  We are all here, celebrating—celebrating me; Stefanie, my loving esposa, Davey, our son with the successful sports career, Jessie, who’s juggling being a realtor along with motherhood, and the grandkids on the couch, already looking bored. Dominic’s twins, Aida and Penny should be here soon, too. It always takes them a little longer, coming from Connecticut and upstate.

  It all must bring such pride to Artie and Ramona, seeing that all this will continue on to another generation. And look how happy Mami is standing next to Ramona. Papi too—un hombre bien orgulloso—and little Dani in his arms, her tiny legs dangling above his belt as her head rests comfortably on his shoulder.

  All these years, all these wonderful years and... wait... something’s wrong... something’s not making sense... this isn’t right...

  The music drifts into a hollow echo. The scent—the scent of Stefanie’s hair, it’s changed. The texture, it’s frizzed, burnt. It smells like... death...

  I pull back.

  Her face.

  It’s blackened.

  Charred flesh … melting off her cheekbones.

  Her mouth, her fangs, they’re ready to strike.

  And that dress!

  That fucking red dress!

  38

  I don’t know how she did it or what it even means. So little is known about our species. Outside of a woman epidemiologist that the general public thinks is insane, no scientific research is being devoted towards what is believed to be folklore. But now, with the Hindquarters massacre and the reports of el mostro terrorizing Rego Park, that tune is going to change.

  And then there’s that orderly, the one that saw me in the staircase at the hospital. Combine these all and we have way too many instances that are begging for an explanation. How long will it be before the general public catches on?

  And I’m pretty sure this isn’t going to be the last of it. More incidents will come. It’s inevitable. And it’s going to get harder and harder to keep sweeping them under the rug.

  In her studies, Dr. Gunder suggests that our species is constantly evolving. How does something that’s dead evolve? Her explanation is that the host human vessel is dead. The disease, venom, virus or whatever-the-fuck you want to call it—that’s what’s alive. And it survives on what drives its host—in our case, human blood. This keeps ou
r little visitors feeding, growing and evolving. Our abilities, she says, suggest that we are other-worldly, enabling us to project human or invisible appearances and control the minds of others. What this means is, if whatever lives inside of us is indeed a species with other-worldly capabilities, then who knows what other traits we might develop or inherit? At least with my genetic resistance, I’ve been able to maintain some degree of control. But what about those who aren’t genetically resistant and don’t give a shit?

  As far as any of us know, Simone was the only one to control others like us. I was fully intent on destroying her back at the Hindquarters. I was ready to attack. Instead she stopped me cold right where I stood, leaving me only wanting to attack what was six inches below her navel.

  Okay, so what about what happened just now?

  We are dead. We don’t sleep. Even those of us with genetic resistance—we do not sleep. When I am in my coffin, there is nothing going on. I am dead. Completely dead. Not asleep. Dead. So if that’s the case, then it goes to follow that we don’t dream. If you don’t sleep, then you don’t dream.

  So what was it, then?

  What was this vision of me having aged, living a normal life with my family? I wasn’t sleeping. I’m not even in my coffin. I’m miles away, sitting with my back against Stefanie’s headstone in Nanuet.

  It’s 11:00 p.m. I’m alone. No one or nothing is in sight—just graves. There’s only one possibility, just one that I can think of.

  She’s in my head!

  I don’t know how she did it but Simone is in my fucking head! Somehow in our last encounter, weak as she was, she was able to find residency in me. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.

  Simone was done. As a host, that ash-withered vessel was no longer going to serve. So what did she do? She hopped on board. She got into my head and stayed there. And that vision I had? It was her. It was Simone’s way of saying, “Hello, honey, I’m home.”

  Great!

  Just fucking great!

  Finally, after over fifty years, I manage to have Los Ruidos leave my system only to have Simone fill the vacancy. What does it mean? If what I suspect is true, and I am carrying her around, what happens now? Can she take over me when she pleases? Will she control what I do? Will I no longer have control over my own actions?