Forever 51

by Pamela Skjolsvik

Holding her hand longer than necessary, he squeezed. “It means strength.”

  “Nice firm handshake you got there, Bruce Banner. I’m Jenny. It means fair one, since you seem to care about that kind of shit.” She pulled her hand away and plopped down on the leather bench.

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.” Maynard smoothed his shirt and rubbed his clammy hands together. “I suppose we should all suit up in Tyvek, as I imagine this could get very messy.”

  Veronica glanced at Ingrid out of the corner of her eye. Her daughter stared calmly at her phone, seemingly immune to the reality of what was about to transpire. Her own heart raced, and she wanted nothing more than to run screaming from Maynard and the prefabricated ghastliness of this room.

  If there was ever a myth about vampires that truly bothered her, it was that they were dramatic, evil, universally untidy creatures. She prided herself in the clean and clinical nature with which she could suck a person dry without spilling a drop. Everywhere she turned, though, from book covers to TV shows or movies, vampires were always pictured with blood dribbling down their chin or some other such nonsense. The last thing she wanted was to splatter someone’s blood on her eighty-five-dollar yoga pants or even on her hospital scrubs. It was difficult to get out in the wash.

  “Yes, I’ll take a Tyvek suit. Extra-large. But before we begin, I need to use the little girl’s room. Ingrid, would you care to join me?” Veronica slung her purse over her shoulder.

  “Can I go?” Jenny rose from the bench.

  “Of course, you can.” Veronica sighed. The last thing Jenny needed was to be stuck in a room with Desmond the despot and Maynard the masochist.

  The third door on the lower level was a unisex restroom with an adjoining lounge, the two seat-up stall toilets suggesting a dearth of self-respecting women employed at Cook’s Funeral Home.

  “Okay, Ingrid. We need to talk.” Veronica leaned against the faux granite countertop.

  Ingrid plopped down on an over-loved loveseat and drew her skinny knees up to her chest. “Yes?”

  “What do you mean, yes? Listen, I’m about to end Desmond’s life. Any thoughts or feelings you might want to express before I commit this final act?”

  She paused to look up at the ceiling. “I thank you for agreeing to it. You are doing him a huge solid, Mom.”

  Veronica had heard this expression but couldn’t place it. It made her wince.

  Ingrid chewed her manicured nails. “He’s tired and bored and he just wants to die. He’s like really old. Like he won’t even tell me how old he is.”

  “Okay, enough about Desmond and his geriatric anxiety. How long have you known about how to reflect or becoming mortal? Because to tell you the truth, the fact that you kept it to yourself really bothers me.”

  “I’ve known for a while.”

  Veronica inhaled deeply. The lines between her brows grew more prominent as her eyes squinted shut.

  Ingrid jutted her arms out in front of her as if to shield herself from an assault. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know how to get in contact with you. Once you left Detroit, I couldn’t find you. It never dawned on me to look you up on Facebook. It just didn’t seem like something you would even do.”

  “You’re on Facebook? Dude, I’m totally going to friend you. What’s your last name?” Jenny’s hand flew into her back pocket to retrieve her phone. Her fingers hovered above the screen.

  Veronica wanted to snap at Jenny, but it was easier to just surrender. “Bouchard. B-o-u-c…”

  “I’m not stupid. I can spell.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “So, let’s upload one of your new pictures to replace that lame-o default icon.”

  Ingrid jumped up from the couch with a jolt. “Oh em gee, I have to pee!” Ingrid danced into one of the empty stalls. “I made a rhyme!”

  Veronica had willingly corralled herself in a mortuary restroom with two hopelessly immature little girls. Abandoning all hope of having any kind of rational conversation about Desmond, she decided to take what she could get. “No, don’t post any pictures or friend me. It’s not a good idea right now. I need to stay off Facebook till some things blow over.”

  “Do you wipe back to front or front to back?” Ingrid’s voice echoed in the small stall.

  “Front to back,” Veronica yelled back at her. “Do you need to go? Now would be a good time,” she told Jenny.

  “Not really. You?”

  “I haven’t pissed in years.” Veronica turned to stare at herself in the mirror. “So, Ingrid. How did you learn about getting your soul back?”

  Ingrid swung the door open and sauntered over to the sink as if she had really accomplished something. “It happened by accident. I hadn’t had sex with Des in like a year and one night he offered me a rather heartfelt apology for stealing my life and taking me away from you. I know this is TMI, but we had amazing makeup sex and later when I got out of the shower, I could see myself in the bathroom mirror. I almost had a heart attack. I couldn’t remember what I looked like.”

  “And?”

  “He knew about it all along, but he never told me. His maker is dead, so…”

  “Hmmm. Well, that changes things.” Veronica felt lighter somehow in knowing that it was simply a happy accident and not a grand conspiracy. She returned to her own reflection, the one thing she could now count on. “Do you have any lipstick? I look so washed out.” Veronica pinched her cheeks.

  Ingrid handed her a tube of Mac from her purse. Both young women stared at Veronica’s reflection in the mirror as she carefully applied Russian Red to her full lips. Her calm face projected pure detachment, but her mind was pondering the easiest way to remove a man’s heart without having to break his ribcage.

  16

  Veronica strutted through the second door sporting a sensible bun, fierce lipstick and a renewed sense of purpose. “I’m going to need gloves. Long ones,” she demanded.

  Maynard nodded officiously and dug through one of the many cabinets. He retrieved a pair of industrial strength blue gloves and handed them to her. “Anything else?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes. I need all three of you to get out of here. I am perfectly capable of doing this by myself, and for your own protection, I don’t want witnesses or accomplices. This is technically an act of murder, so I suggest you all go busy yourselves elsewhere. Is that okay with you, Desmond? Or do you want to turn this into performance art? Never mind. Don’t answer that. This is my circus and I’m the mother-fucking monkey.” Veronica grabbed the Tyvek suit and stepped inside of it.

  “But—” Maynard began.

  “Listen—anything you say after but is simply justification for your own behavior or thoughts. And judging that you want to witness this, I seriously question both.”

  “My duty is to dispose of his heart.” Maynard crossed his arms and squared his shoulders.

  “I’m perfectly capable of opening the door, throwing it in that machine and pressing a button. It’s not rocket science.” She motioned towards the crematory. “Is it fired up and ready to go?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “There you go again. Try saying whatever you need to say without but. Preferably in ten words or less.” Veronica zipped up the blinding white suit and placed the hood over her hair.

  Maynard glared at her. “While I appreciate that you are undertaking the more difficult task, this is my room. Not yours.”

  “Excellent use of brevity, Maynard, but you don’t have a compelling enough argument to change my mind.”

  “You just said but,” he stammered.

  “I’m also the one who will be holding a very sharp instrument, so you may want to drop the proverbial rope.” Veronica grabbed the most menacing knife from the tray and held it up for inspection.

  “You don’t scare me,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “I’m not trying to,” she replied and set the knife back down. She rolled her head from side to side. Audible cracking sounds emanated from her neck as she advanced towards Maynard. “All I’
m asking is that you respect my wishes. It’s for your own good.”

  “You can strap me down,” Desmond reassured him, patting him on the shoulder. “I guess I should take this off, huh?” He sat down on the bench and lifted the grey cashmere sweater over his head, exposing his ripped abs. Jenny’s jaw dropped.

  “Damn. You’re just gonna let that shit go?” Jenny whispered to Ingrid.

  “I can hear you, Jenny. What the hell is going on with my hearing?” Veronica tapped at her ear and shook her head.

  “You have your soul back. Something I never got to experience.” Colder and less confident with his shirt off, Desmond rubbed his muscular arms. “I only got to live it vicariously through Ingrid. Right now, you are more alive than you’ve ever been. All six of your senses have been awakened.”

  “Awakened by what?” She widened her stance as if to plant herself. There was too much change in the past forty-eight hours.

  “Hope. A world filtered through the eyes of possibility is a lot brighter than one filled with endless days of monotonous nothing.” Desmond’s eyes pleaded with her. Do it quick before I change my mind. His voice was clear and insistent in her head.

  She nodded in understanding. “Would you please strap him down, Maynard?”

  Ingrid glided towards Desmond and knelt beside him with confident grace. She smoothed his dark hair and kissed his lips. “This isn’t the end. You and I both know that. I love you.”

  “I love you too. Be good, Ingrid.” He stroked her pale face and whispered into her neck. “Listen to your mother. I don’t want you to see this.”

  Jenny stepped forward as Ingrid rose. “I really don’t know what to say so, see ya.” She meekly waved in his direction and turned towards Veronica. Wouldn’t want to be ya. Jenny’s sing-songy thought echoed in Veronica’s head.

  “Good luck with your recovery, Jenny.” Desmond laid back and Maynard stooped down to secure the first strap across his left leg.

  “Where should we go?” asked Ingrid, looking somehow even more childlike than before.

  “There’s a nice quiet room off the main chapel if you want to wait there,” said Desmond as Maynard moved on to the right leg. “Tighter,” he instructed, lifting his leg to demonstrate.

  “I really think I should be here. Don’t you?” Maynard strapped Desmond’s arms down to the bench with more force.

  “You can wait in the next room, but I think it’s wise if you adhere to her wishes.”

  “Fine.” Maynard finished tightening the last strap and stood. “But—” He threw his arms up. “Jesus, I can’t stop saying but.” He sneered in Veronica’s direction and lowered his voice. “It just won’t be the same here without you. Goodbye, my friend. Are you sure you won’t…?” He raised his brows.

  “Yes, I’m sure. You don’t want this.” Desmond smiled wearily, and Veronica didn’t know whether to be touched at Desmond’s eagerness to spare his friend the trauma of witnessing the dirty work to come or disgusted at his willingness to foist it off on Veronica instead.

  “Has everyone said what they need to say?” Veronica scanned the room and lingered on Ingrid, who nodded solemnly.

  “I think we’re good to go.” Desmond closed his eyes. A single tear streamed down the side of his face. Veronica hoped her daughter saw it.

  “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, time to skedaddle. I’ll come upstairs when I’m…” Veronica hesitated.

  “Done,” Desmond offered.

  Jenny and Ingrid couldn’t leave fast enough, but Maynard shuffled around the periphery of the room like a hungry raccoon at a Boy Scout campsite.

  “I’ll holler if I need anything from you, Mr. Dirks.” Veronica grabbed one of the knives and walked towards the exit. She cleared her throat and opened the door.

  Maynard’s pace slowed, and he glowered at her like a pouty child. She attempted to read his thoughts as he passed, but nothing came. Incensed, she slammed the lockless metal door after him.

  Up until this point, she had tried to behave as if she were a bad ass who knew what she was doing. Ending someone’s life was never easy, even when they begged and pleaded for it. Veronica returned to Desmond, jittery and unsure. She inhaled deeply to steady her nerves.

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” she exhaled and lowered the knife to her side.

  “I know what you’re going through and if my words can make it any easier for you, I want you to know this—I have a high tolerance for pain.”

  Veronica laughed at his admission. “This is different. It’s final.”

  “I’ve been clubbed, stoned, hung, shot, stabbed, and eviscerated on more occasions than I would really care to remember.” He raised his head as far as the restraints would allow. “And like yours, my body keeps coming back for further abuse. It’s a crazy way to live and I’m truly sorry for my part in your creation. I don’t know about you, but I’m done.” He dropped his head and sighed. “Ingrid needs to have a life, and it will be much easier for her to do that if I’m gone. That’s why I want you to do it. I owe that to you.”

  “I understand, Desmond. I do. I’m going to help you. I’ll do my best to make it quick.” Veronica stepped between his legs and grabbed a pair of goggles from the tray. She lowered the knife to his abdomen, pricking the soft flesh with the sharp tip. A stream of blood appeared, and her teeth pushed hungrily through her gums. If she held back now, it would only prolong his suffering.

  Veronica went for it, thrusting the blade up and into his abdomen with surprising speed and precision. Desmond’s naked chest rose and fell as he attempted to control his breathing through the excruciating pain.

  “Okay, I’m going to do this, Desmond. Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Do it,” he growled between clenched teeth.

  She shoved her arm elbow deep into his rib cage, groping until she could feel his pounding heart at the tip of her trembling fingers. She reached, grasped, seized the pulsating thing—and then gave it a violent full-body yank.

  Desmond arched in mortal agony. Veronica stumbled back, clutched the horrible, spurting prize to her chest, drenching the front of her suit in his blood.

  And that was it, apparently. It didn’t turn to dust, or burst into flames, or even turn to stone. It just flopped weakly in her grasp like a gory trout. Tearing herself away from the sight of Desmond’s gruesome half-pound anticlimax, she leaned over his gutted body, peering into his still opened eyes.

  “Done,” she said.

  His eyes widened in recognition. “Behind you,” he moaned.

  The first blow hit the back of her head. Veronica collapsed. Desmond’s heart slipped from her grasp and slid across the floor in a crimson slick.

  Maynard scrambled after it, grunting like an animal.

  Veronica struggled to focus her heavy, doubled gaze as wisps of gray smoke rose from Desmond’s gaping wound. Accompanied by a strange cacophony of high-pitched screams and low bellows, the newly freed army of smoke swirled around the room, as if searching for an exit.

  “It’s mine!” Maynard scooped up Desmond’s heart, brought it to his gaping mouth, and took a ravenous bite.

  Veronica staggered to her feet and lunged. “Give it to me! It has to be destroyed!”

  Maynard kicked Veronica to the floor and took another greedy bite, brandishing a wicked-looking dissection knife. “I’ll cut your heart out too if you don’t stay back!”

  With the size and dexterity of a rabid squirrel, Jenny leapt onto Maynard’s back and wrapped her left arm around his neck. Forcing his chin back, she plunged one of the archaic blades into his throat. Bucking her off, he fell face first onto the floor.

  “Die, douchebag!” Jenny spit, kicking his head with her heavy boot.

  “Where’s the heart?” Veronica rose to her knees, frantically searching the floor.

  “There,” Jenny pointed.

  “Pick it up, open the hatch door thingy and throw it in the crematory. Now!” Veronica heaved Maynard over onto his back.

  Eye
s wide, blood and air bubbling from his new tracheotomy, he gasped like a fish in an empty tank. “I’m—it’s—why isn’t it working?”

  Veronica didn’t have to know what he was talking about to be sure she didn’t care. After hours of watching other people wax orgasmic over cookies and cheeseburgers, it was finally her turn. In one smooth motion, she yanked the knife from Maynard’s throat and sunk her face into the bloody pool of his neck.

  17

  “Dude, you totally look like a used tampon.” Jenny lifted Maynard’s legs as Veronica hefted his upper body towards the crematory.

  “That was exactly the look I was going for, thanks for noticing.” Veronica spied her reflection in the gargantuan machine’s shiny chrome and winced. Jenny was right—and they both needed a shower and a change of clothes. “Where’s Ingrid?”

  “Probably still upstairs. I hate to break it to you, but your daughter is kind of a wimp. She wouldn’t even come back down here with me.”

  Veronica opened the door and pulled out the slab. “It’s perfectly normal that she didn’t want to witness a loved one’s death.” Veronica lifted her brows. “Do you think you can lift him with me or should we get a gurney?”

  “We don’t need no gurney.” Jenny grabbed his calves. “Why do you think he wanted to eat Desmond’s heart? That’s pretty fucking out there, even for you guys. Right?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Lift with your knees, not your back. On the count of three.”

  Veronica managed to heave the upper part of Maynard’s body onto the slab as Jenny struggled with the lower half. “Stand right here and make sure he doesn’t fall off. I’ll get his legs.” She pushed his butt up and over. His legs followed. “Would you like to do the honors, killer?”

  “Gladly.” Jenny pushed his body into the crematory, closed the door and clapped her hands. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Sauntering over to Desmond’s body with the swagger of an assassin, she assessed the giant gash in his abdomen. “Is he next?”

  “Yeah, we can’t just leave him here. The last thing I need is more police.” Veronica unbuckled the leather straps. “I think we should use a gurney. He’s heavy.”