Shaking out the Dead

by K M Cholewa

  The highway was her own. The valley lights ahead were a shimmering sea. She thought of what John had said to her, What do you want me to do for you? She thought maybe the question was the thing. Another’s faith in what she wanted. Another’s faith in her perception.

  She turned down her side street and tried to block out any thoughts involving “next” — what this would mean in the light of day and what this would change. For now, the world twinkled, and her pelvis radiated. Time would unfold as it did. She would catch up to it later.

  She parked in the garage. Voodoo joined her as she crossed the yard, trotting at her feet. Geneva entered through the back door and moved with slow pleasure down the hall to the front of the house. She dropped her purse on the desk. The answering machine blinked.

  She hit the button. It was Parkview Homes. They needed her to call at the soonest possible moment.

  Geneva picked up the phone and dialed, but she already knew that Ralph was dead.

  37

  

  Geneva rolled away from the sudden blast of light and covered her face with the bed sheet. Geneva’s friend, Helene, stood at the switch, a barn jacket thrown on over her blouse and jean skirt.

  “Let’s go, Eva,” she said.

  Ralph was on Geneva’s nightstand, cremated to dust.

  “Get rid of him now,” Helene said, “or you’ll spend years trying to figure out what to do with him.”

  Geneva turned over in her bed, rose to an elbow, and squinted in Helene’s direction. She shaded her eyes with her hand. The service had been earlier that day. Vincent had arrived on Geneva’s doorstep within ten hours of her having called his mother, Helene, to tell her that Ralph was dead. It took Helene another day and a half to arrive from Ventura. Vincent and Tatum had dealt with the logistics of the service while Helene served as muscle for Geneva. For the last few days, to get to Geneva, you had to go through her.

  “Where are the keys to that piece-of-shit car of yours?” Helene said.

  “It’s not a piece of shit.”

  Helene flashed the lights on and off several times. Geneva watched Helene’s short, thick frame disappear and appear again.

  “Get dressed,” Helene said.

  

  Vincent had been five inches tall on Tatum’s pillow one morning and sitting on her sofa the next. It made the paper doll seem like a voodoo doll, a magic spell. She had always imagined Vincent running from her, checking over his shoulder. How could it be that he was here, she wondered, looking at her sidelong, and knocking her out? How could that be a one-way feeling? It felt so much like an in-between.

  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t chemistry. Chemistry is about a combination of forces, not a one-way hunger. In nature, one-sided attraction is considered predatory. I-want-you-but-you-don’t-want-me usually means you’re lunch. Wanting to consume what doesn’t want to be consumed — is that what unrequited love is?

  No wonder he ran, Tatum thought. Wouldn’t she? Or did she want to be consumed? Loved like a lion loves a gazelle — with hunger, with anticipation? Or would she run from such love too, as though running for life itself?

  On the morning of Ralph’s funeral, she, Rachael, and Vincent sat on the sofa choosing frames for the pictures that Helene had brought over. Rachael had not been included in the planning of her mother’s funeral. But Vincent had invited her in to planning Ralph’s, and her legs swung and kicked the side of the sofa as they worked. Vincent didn’t talk to her like she was a little girl, which, ironically, brought it out in her. He explained cremation to her. He told her there were many ways to return to the earth.

  Vincent dressed for the service in dark wash jeans, a crisp white shirt, bolo tie, and black sports jacket. Rachael wore a new dress, purple and black, and slightly more mature than she had worn in the past. Geneva didn’t want a church, and so Tatum had arranged for the main floor and deck of a local bed-and-breakfast. Geneva and Helene had selected a black lacquer box for Ralph’s ashes, which would be placed on a white tablecloth surrounded by pictures spanning the course of Ralph’s life. Vincent would do the eulogy.

  Tatum stood and left Rachael and Vincent to the framing job and went to stand on the side of the bathtub to see her whole outfit in the mirror above the sink. The new blazer was meant to be for work. But apparently, a funeral would be its debut. She adjusted the slate blue blouse’s collar above the blazer’s lapel. Her head was cut off in the reflection, but she could see the line of jacket, slacks, and shoes. She thought about Margaret and wearing her skirt at her funeral. Tatum knew she had looked terrible that day. The clothes were upscale, and yet somehow, she had managed to look dressed from boxes dropped off behind a Salvation Army.

  She stepped down from the tub and realized why Margaret had crossed her mind. Vincent’s and Rachael’s voices spoke softly as they worked. They were talking about Margaret. Tatum stood still so she could hear.

  “Does all this make you think of her?” Vincent asked Rachael.

  “A little,” she said.

  “What was she like?”

  “Pretty,” Rachael said. “Nice. But she used to cry a lot.”

  Margaret used to cry a lot. Of course, she did. A strange guilt crept up in Tatum. She knew Margaret cried a lot. Why did she know and never admit it? Was it Lee who made her cry? Or something older, more ancient?

  Or did the crying Rachael referred to come after the diagnosis?

  Tatum didn’t move but kept listening, either for sounds from the living room or coming up from the heating vent. Sometimes she could hear Paris moving around below. Paris was taking the night off to attend the funeral and reception, but largely, he had been making himself scarce while Vincent was around. It had bothered Tatum at first. Embarrassed her, really. She didn’t want Vincent to think her boyfriend wasn’t attentive. Silly, but true. Still, it had its advantages, the two of them, Paris and Vincent, not being together. The two times they’d all been together in the previous four days, Tatum had felt as though with each word and use of eye contact, she was choosing one above the other. Besides, she was enjoying Vincent’s attention. She could tell she had risen in his esteem, was better in his eyes than she had been when he had left. Somehow, she had improved. She was flattered and insulted, both.

  Paris did not seem to much impress Vincent. Either that, or he just didn’t want to let on he might care. Tatum thought she did notice once, however, Vincent’s eyes trying to penetrate him, trying to see what he was made of. If they were dogs, there might have been a scuffle, just to see who was whom.

  Tatum had been embarrassed to find out about Ralph’s death through Vincent. She may have been promoted in Vincent’s eyes, but it was the opposite with Geneva. It’s a dose of humiliation, finding out someone likes you less than you thought. Then Helene arrived. If Tatum and Helene were dogs — bitches, as they say — Tatum knew there would be no scuffle. As to who was alpha was clear.

  

  Geneva held Ralph on her lap. Helene drove. They headed out on the strip toward the highway. Neon blinked. The bank’s marquee flashed that it was just after midnight and forty degrees. Traffic signals issued commands to no one. Lights and shadows stretched and receded across the dashboard.

  “I don’t like that girl,” Helene told Geneva.

  “Rachael?”

  “Not the little one, the aunt.”

  “Tatum?”

  “The one Vincent used to see. That’s a woman waiting to be rescued. Women like that are nothing but trouble.”

  “She’s ,all right.”

  “Yeah, you think so, but you don’t have sons. The boys want to ride in on white horses. They don’t realize that for girls like that getting rescued is like heroin.”

  “Does Vincent like to ride in on a white horse?”

  “Vincent rides through on a white horse.”

  “Well, then there’s no need to worry, at least not for him,” Geneva said. “Besides, she’s seeing Paris.” She pla
ced her hands on each side of the black lacquer box. “I don’t know what to do with him,” she said, meaning Ralph. “It seems to me that the time to do something is when I know what to do.”

  “Nah-ah, no way,” Helene said. “I’m not letting you think about this for another ten years.”

  “Well, I’m not going to dump him along side the road or leave him in the bathroom of a 7-11.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  Geneva looked sidelong at Helene leaning forward over the wheel as she drove. Helene had a tendency to ride the brake — she always had — and so she accelerated big and broke long, pressing with her wide foot stuffed into slip-on rubber sandals.

  “In the end,” Geneva said, “I lost my capacity to love him, you know. My great failure.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Eva. I don’t know if not loving a person means you failed to love him.”

  “That’s my suspicion.” Geneva looked out the passenger window at strip malls and the Chinese Buffet. “This is the problem with being smart,” she said. “You know you’re responsible for everything.”

  “Nah,” Helene said. “Just because you create a stupid life doesn’t mean you owe it anything.”

  Helene hit the blinker and merged onto the ramp. The sides of the highway opened up, uncluttered by commerce. Gradations of black and blue-black formed silhouettes against the sky. The moon and earth had just begun their monthly good-bye, and the moon looked over its shoulder as they parted ways. Helene pulled her purse from the floor at Geneva’s feet and dug in it with one hand as she drove. She pulled out an old Sucrets tin and handed it to Geneva. Geneva tucked Ralph’s ashes between her legs and opened the tin. Inside were three fat doobies.

  “You know what I was thinking during the funeral?” Geneva said.

  “What?”

  Geneva took a joint from the tin. Helene passed her a lighter. Geneva spoke with the joint in one hand, the lighter in the other.

  “I think, to Ralph, my life was my hobby.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Really?” Geneva said. “The cultivation of my soul is on par with collecting porcelain kitties?”

  “You’re fighting with a dead man,” Helene said.

  Geneva raised the joint to her lips and the lighter to the joint. She lit up and took a hit. She passed the joint to Helene and let the smoke out slowly.

  “Speaking of the cultivation of my soul,” she said, looking through the passenger window, “did I tell you I’m a whore?”

  

  Paris wore khakis and a white dress shirt with the creases from the packaging still running down the front. He sat on the edge of his mattress. He had never aspired to much, he thought, and it seemed he had arrived. The presence of Vincent had rendered him invisible again. But it was a different kind of invisibility than before. It was not a cloak that served or politely allowed for the invisibility of others. In fact, it wasn’t even his own invisibility. It had been cast upon him. He stood in a shadow.

  So he hid. If he was to be invisible, he would at least be in the driver’s seat. He deemed it not cowardice but the exercising of quiet dignity. He knew better, though. He knew he was no threat to Vincent, and that fact wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the idea had crossed his mind, that the assessment had taken place at all. Since when did he want to be a threat?

  But he was becoming someone else. He’d felt it happening for some time. His sense of duty had mutated. He had become a pair of sticky hands. Tatum and Rachael belonged to him. He belonged to Tatum and Rachael.

  He looked up, hearing footsteps, male ones, he could tell, in the foyer above. He took a deep breath and rose from the mattress. There were no booths to wipe. No corn bread to make. There was a funeral to attend. Vincent was the man of the hour.

  Paris climbed the basement steps and emerged through the door, but the image before him did not compute. A man at Tatum’s door. Blond, not dark, hair. Not Vincent. The man looked at him then back to the door that was opening before him.

  

  Lee. Tatum couldn’t say his name. She couldn’t say anything. Lee looked strung out, and it took her aback. Her eyes darted to Paris, who stood off to the side in the foyer. Rachael peeked from behind Tatum. She blinked, and her mouth opened. She ran to her father. He squatted. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

  Tatum and Paris exchanged a look above the hug.

  “Wow,” Tatum said. “Come in. Come in.”

  Lee lifted Rachael, hiked her up, and stepped inside. Paris followed.

  “Paris,” Tatum said, “this is Lee, Rachael’s dad. And this is Vincent,” she said, gesturing behind her.

  Vincent stepped forward, and Lee lowered Rachael to the floor. Vincent extended his hand.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” Vincent said, holding Lee’s hand and eye. Lee gave a short nod, acknowledging the expression of sympathy, but Tatum could also see the shadow of distrust crossing his face, perhaps unnerved by being known but not knowing. Then Vincent released Lee’s hand and excused himself and knocked on the door across the hall before opening it.

  “What are you doing here?” Tatum said, hoping there was the sound of pleasant surprise in her voice.

  “I got your message,” Lee said to Tatum. He took Rachael’s hand and then took in the apartment. The furniture was a hodge-podge of on-clearance items and secondhand deals. It was not dirty. But by the standards of the affluent suburbs, the place was a dump.

  Tatum took hold of her own wrist as though there were a watch on it.

  “This is, this is such a surprise,” she said, “but we’re on our way to a funeral.” Her eyes darted to Paris then back to Lee. “I guess, if you want, Rachael, you don’t have to go.”

  Rachael sunk, face and body. This funeral was important to her. She’d helped plan it. It was under her control and a return to the scene of a crime.

  “Or your dad can come with us,” Tatum said. “Rachael’s been a great help with planning it,” she said to Lee.

  Tatum looked at Paris and shrugged, unsure whether one brought guests to a funeral.

  “That probably wouldn’t be right,” Lee said.

  “It would be fine,” Tatum said, “if you want to.”

  “I don’t know,” Lee said. He looked down at Rachael. Her eyes were pleading with Tatum, pleading that she plead on her behalf. “Do you want me to come?” Lee said to Rachael, pulling her eyes his way.

  “I think,” she said, looking at Tatum, “I think we should.” Then her eyes shot upward to her father.

  “Shoes then,” Tatum said, and Rachael went off down the hall.

  Once she was gone, Tatum turned to Lee. “How long you here for?”

  Lee was looking down the hall, the way Rachael had gone.

  “Long enough to figure out logistics, I guess,” he said.

  “The logistics of what?” Tatum said, her voice and stomach both dropping.

  

  It was good California reefer, fragrant and fresh. Outside Geneva’s window, the mountains seemed as if they were on a slow retreat from the highway, giant refugees crossing the prairie. Geneva felt like the car was a capsule moving through a space divorced of time. Without time, the car-capsule drove without seeming to make progress. Geneva told Helene about John, about the food and the fire, about the question he had asked — what do you want me to do for you? Geneva told Helene about the sex and John’s giant dick.

  “I got home,” Geneva said, “and Ralph was dead.”

  “What came first?” Helene asked. “Ralph dying or the giant dick?”

  “Technically,” Geneva said, “Ralph died first. But those weren’t the assumptions under which I was operating.”

  “So do you think you killed him?”

  “No,” Geneva snapped. “Do you?”

  Helene shrugged, but she was just goading her.

  “Speaking of giant dicks,” Geneva mumbled, goading back. S
he turned and looked out the window and noticed, despite the sensation of having traveled nowhere, that they were approaching the exit off of which John lived. “He lives off this exit,” she said.

  Helene jerked the steering wheel and took the ramp.

  “No, no, no,” Geneva said.

  “I want to see this shack of his.”

  “No. It’s quiet out there. I don’t want him to think I’m stalking him.”

  “Maybe he’ll be flattered.”

  “Maybe he’ll be frightened.”

  “He’ll be asleep,” Helene said.

  “Go right,” Geneva said at the top of the ramp.

  It was darker still off the highway. Helene dug in her purse again as she drove and pulled out an old cassette tape.

  “Remember this?” she said, handing it to Geneva.

  Geneva took it from her. The ink on the label was faded, but Geneva recognized her own handwriting. It was probably twelve years old at least. The first song was “Almost Cut My Hair.”

  “I remember making this,” Geneva said.

  “Snap it in.”

  But Geneva didn’t. She turned it one way and the other, trying to read it in the dashboard lights. She could make out Bowie and Ten Years After from the fading ink. She looked up from the tape and squinted.

  “Take the next left.”

  Helene took the left off the paved road. The wheels snapped and popped on the gravel.

  “What did your Big John have to say about Ralph dying?”

  Geneva sighed.

  “He asked if I wanted him at the funeral. I told him I needed to step back and do this.”