The Dead Love Longer: A Novella

by Scott Nicholson

  Sure, they'd be able to figure things out eventually, with all the powder tests and databases and interrogation tactics the police used these days. Plus there was the obvious thread leading to whoever had snapped the photo behind the building. But I didn't have time for the modern machineries of criminal justice to creak into action. I'd be deep-sixed in a couple of days at the most, with maybe an extra day thrown in for an autopsy.

  "Who's this 'Bootsie'?" Uhlgren said to nobody, holding the snapshot and the letter side by side. I almost materialized so I could make my lips move enough to give him an address. But let him have his fun. It didn't matter to me if Uhlgren was on the trail or not. I had what I needed.

  Now it was time to figure out who the white-haired man in the captain's hat was. He was the link between Bailey and the man who had ventilated my chest.

  ***

  9.

  I reached San Francisco just before dawn. Usually, the fog and rain there wraps you up and digs its way into your bones. But when you have no bones, the chill doesn't bother you as much.

  Nothing compares to being a ghost in the fog. Drifting from marina to marina, I was consumed by a peace I had rarely known, the kind they sing about in "Silent Night." I would have been content to drift for an eternity, succumbing to the pull of tides and shore breezes. But I still had an emptiness inside me, an ache and longing that kept me on task. No eternal peace would be complete without Lee.

  There are thousands of boats in San Francisco. I passed over half of them before I found the Lady Slipper. I had hoped at least to learn the captain's name. I didn't think I would be lucky enough to find him sitting in the cabin. A half-empty bottle of Scotch, a cup of cold coffee, a cellular phone, and a revolver were on the table in front of him. He was crying.

  The mahogany walls were covered with plaques, certificates, and framed photographs, and a trophy case filled one entire wall, brass and silver gleaming even in the dimness. Two of them were Oscars. I checked one of the photographs. The captain, in his younger days, posing with Natalie Wood. I thought he'd looked familiar. The photo beneath it looked like an autographed portrait of Spencer Tracy, but I didn't study it closely.

  Because the captain had picked up the revolver.

  His hand trembled, and his eyelids twitched as he kept them clamped shut. He brought the revolver slowly to his head. I understood the darkness that might push someone over the edge. But now I knew the true value of living. I knew what it was like to die with regrets. I was willing to bet the captain had at least one regret.

  I materialized. The captain's eyes were still closed.

  "Don't do it," I said, my head throbbing from the effort of wearing flesh.

  The captain's eyelids snapped open and his finger tensed on the trigger. I thought for a second he was going to blow himself away in the shock of seeing me. Because of the suddenness of my incorporation, I hadn't finished the job. I was milky, translucent.

  His mouth opened, and he glanced groggily at the cabin door. I came fully back into human form.

  "Who—what?" he stammered.

  "I'm the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," I said.

  "How did you get in here?" He pushed himself back in the chair. "The door's locked."

  I held up my hand and wiggled my fingers. Then I made them invisible. I tried to will myself back to flesh again, but I was weak. I panicked, fought, suffered a moment of doubt. He pointed the revolver in the direction of my heart and fired.

  ***

  10.

  This time I skipped the Waiting Room. "Jingle Bell Rock" was playing through the speakers, and I wondered if this time around I had been sent directly to Hell. But then I recognized the office. Miss Titanic was standing over me, scowling down.

  "Steele, you miserable piece of dirt. How many second chances do you need?"

  "I didn't kill myself this time. Some guy shot me." I fingered the fifth and newest hole in my jacket.

  "You're a tweener, like I told you. You got special protections, but you also have special responsibilities. Like not getting yourself killed in the meantime."

  "I didn't know a dead person could die. Especially not twice."

  "We're all dying, all the time, over and over. Or hadn't you figured that out yet?"

  "I've had other things on my mind. What's with the bad Christmas music?"

  "We're equal opportunity up here. Before this, it was a Tibetan chant, 'Hava Nagila,' 'Kumbaya' and something which might have passed for a Unitarian hymn, if they even have one. But that doesn't concern you, because you still don't believe in any of them, or anything, for that matter."

  "I believe in Lee."

  "Sure you do. So much that you jumped off a building and then went and got yourself shot. And your funeral's coming up as soon as the medical examiner finishes the autopsy."

  "I'm going to make it work. For her sake."

  "No. Do it for yourself. That's the first lesson of love. Settle your own soul before you go mixing up with somebody else's."

  I looked at the clock. "Jingle Bell Rock" mercifully ended, and an African tribal hymn came on. "I owe it to Lee to finish this job," I said.

  "I can tell. You got to have a little faith, remember?"

  "I'm starting to believe there's a higher power at work." I said it not as a hollow, rote acknowledgment that might score me some brownie points with somebody on a golden throne. I was getting as many second chances as I needed, apparently, and so far I had done little to prove I could handle my affairs on my own.

  Because I couldn't. And I'd always been too stubborn and scared to ask for help.

  "That's a good boy. Only took you forty human years and a couple of trips through afterlife administration. Hell, if we gave you a few extra eternities you might even turn out to be somebody."

  "Glad you have such faith in me." I stood and turned toward the door. "I'd better hurry. If Lee's involved in this, my killer could be planning to get rid of her, too."

  Miss Titanic's sarcasm stopped me. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  I faced her desk and she waved three pieces of paper. "Schedule X. An override for Form 3716. Sign three times in blood, and you're out of here."

  ***

  11.

  I smiled back at Wesmeyer in the boat's cabin, enjoying the aroma of gunpowder and another chance.

  "You didn't die," Wesmeyer said, shaking his head and rubbing his bloodshot eyes.

  "We're all dying, all the time."

  He looked at the gun, then back at me. "In my case, I just want to speed things along."

  "Nothing's worth killing yourself over," I said. "Believe me, I know."

  "Who are you? Really? Because you're not real. You're not even here right now." He stared at the Scotch bottle as if I were its genie.

  "I'm a friend."

  "Friend? I don't have any friends." The gun barrel tilted down but still pointed in my direction.

  "Surely somebody cares about you. Got any family?"

  "Two daughters," he said, his sibilants mushy from the booze. "I lost one, and I never had the other."

  "You've got more than you know. Money, accolades, starlets' numbers in your speed dial. You're a producer who produces. Dance of Dust, Love in the Afternoon, The Slow Parade. Who wouldn't want to trade places with the great Ron Wesmeyer?"

  He waved the gun toward his head. "I'd like to get the hell out of Ron Wesmeyer."

  "Don't be a damned coward. Surely you've got something to live for. Something besides yourself."

  "I've screwed it all up," he said. "No hope for it now."

  I felt myself fading, dissolving. I fought to maintain my grip on existence. My anger helped, and the discovery that in solving someone else's problems, I was facing my own.

  "Listen here, buddy." I leaned over the table, trying to look menacing. "If you've got a chance to fix things, you better take it."

  He blinked. "I must be as drunk as an agent. Talking to a freaking ghost." But the gun lowered again.

  "You ever
see It's a Wonderful Life?"

  He nodded. "I was an uncredited gaffer for that movie."

  "And you worked your way up. To the top, or least high enough that you're obscured by clouds."

  "Yeah? So what? That doesn't make me a decent human being. I've failed in the only thing that matters."

  "Don't stop the movie until the final credits roll. You can always set things right. Take it from me. I'm the world's greatest expert on remakes."

  He put the gun on the table and took a swig of Scotch. "At least when I write my suicide note, I can honestly say I'm crazy. I've got a ghost for a shrink."

  I gave him a line so good, he probably ended up using it in his next movie: "Well, you can learn a lot about life from a dead guy."

  Here sat one of the world's most powerful movie producers, reduced to a leaking sack of self-pity. And I was presuming to inspire him. "Tell me a story, Ron. Make it true, and at least die with it off your chest, if that's the way you want it."

  He sighed long and empty like a man with numb fingers and nothing to lose. "It's my daughters. When I was working my way up, I didn't want kids underfoot. Both were illegitimate. I had a lot of flings in those days. Hollywood's never been known for its wise mating decisions."

  I interrupted. "I've got to dissolve now, but that doesn't mean I'm not listening. If you think being alive is a pain in the neck, maybe someday I'll tell you my story."

  My substance slipped away, leaving only me. Wesmeyer's eyes widened, but he took a sip of Scotch and continued. "Their mothers gave them up to orphanages. I always figured one day I would track them down, see what became of them, maybe help them out if I could. But you know how it goes. I was always too busy making the next deal. Then one of my daughters found me first."

  I threw my voice. "Bailey."

  He nodded, beyond the capacity of surprise. "She knew about the other daughter, too. She also knew my estate is worth about ten million dollars, and the cancer has reached my liver and colon. This late in the game, I figured I'd do way more harm than good if I tracked them down. A year is hardly enough time to patch up such a big hate."

  Sounded like Bailey had a good source of information. A source that must have skimmed a couple of mil off the top. The captain took another gulp of Scotch and chased it with the rancid coffee. I shuddered in sympathy.

  He wiped his mouth. "I drew up a will, figuring that even if I'd been worthless as a parent, I could make up for it by giving them lots of money. A poor substitute for love, I know, but it's better than nothing. Somehow, even that turned sour."

  Sure. Bailey found out about the money and wanted it all. And someone named Lee was standing in the way. My batteries were nearly tapped out, but I mustered my voice for a question. "Does anybody else know about your two daughters?"

  "No," he said, staring through me at the wall. "Their mothers are dead, one in a car crash and one from pills. So...wait a minute. My lawyer drew up the papers for my will."

  Bingo.

  "Do me a favor," I said. "After you finish your story, pick up the phone and call your other daughter. Life's too short, and there's no hell as hot as one that's filled with should-haves and regrets."

  I hoped my caseworker got wind of my good deed. Even Santa knows who's naughty and who's nice. If Santa could do it, anybody could. I wafted weakly toward Los Angeles, the city of angels.

  ***

  12.

  Lee has a little courtyard outside her La Brea apartment. She takes it upon herself to keep flowers growing, to add a little natural color to the asphalt, concrete, and neon that occupies much of the Pacific basin. She has such a green thumb that even the smog can't kill her garden. Columbine, posies, marigolds, violets, she can do it all.

  I was glad I didn't have to crush the flowers. I floated, thin as a Pacific wind, to the window. I took a deep breath, remembered I'd given up breathing a long time ago, and peeked through the glass.

  A man with a gun stood behind Lee. She was writing something on a piece of paper, probably something she didn't want to write. Her face was calm except for her trembling lips. Her eyes were puffy from crying, but I was sure the tears were for my death and not her own.

  You ever know what it's like to be loved? Not a lot of people do. Lack of faith had dogged my every step as a mortal, even when wonderful women fully expressed their love, opened their hearts and souls, and invited me to consume all I wanted. Unconditionally. And still I doubted. But, at that moment, seeing my sweetheart weep, with my photo on the table surrounded by a dozen wads of tissue, I knew.

  My, she was beautiful. I had been afraid that seeing her would drain me, rip my ethereal fabric into existential shreds. Instead, I was energized, boosted, fueled by anger and love and the hope of an eternity together.

  Hope. There it was again.

  So big and true even a phony like me couldn't deny it.

  I went through the wall.

  Into Diana.

  Not just bumping into her, like when you see some ex-lover on the street and give that embarrassed grin and get through the "How are you?" and "See you later" with not much in between.

  No, I was into her, merged more deeply than we'd ever managed when engaged in bedroom acrobatics.

  I'll admit, my idea of love had mostly been skin deep, and my only expression of affection was to follow the one part of me that always seemed to be pointed off a cliff edge. I'd tangled with some wonders, and I treasured them all, even though there was no way I could ever respect anybody stupid enough to fall for me.

  So this intense, abrupt intimacy really threw me off my game. Diana had never invaded my thoughts, not to any real level of depth, and now here she was in my spirit meat, her ethereal fabric woven into mine, two angels dancing on the same pinhead.

  "We have to talk," Diana said/thought/screamed/whispered.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I made a promise. To make your life a living hell. Why stop right when it's getting fun?"

  I glanced over at Lee, and she was still scribbling, the Goon With Gun unperturbed. Diana and I appeared to be invisible.

  "Get out of my goddamned head," I said.

  "Come on, lover. You said I was your soul mate, remember? And now that it's literal, you're getting cold feet."

  "Because my feet have been dead for a couple of days."

  I tried to shrug her off the way you might shake a pet monkey off your back, but she was duct-taped to my innermost being. The deepest, blackest part of it.

  I recalled something my caseworker had said, about regrets and using up second chances. And the big thing I'd been running from.

  Guilt.

  There, in the mausoleum of my heart, the "Diana" coffin was full of the most maggot-riddled, corpulent putrescence imaginable. I thought I'd walled it off, that it was so safely buried that the stench would never arise.

  True, I hadn't killed her. She'd taken that particular choice herself, in consultation with whatever cosmic guide she'd consulted. My failure had been in refusing to let her be fully alive.

  No, she hadn't been Diana Kelly Rognstad Steele, a creature of love and light, one of God's special children. She hadn't been a woman, a sacred entity that I nurtured and honored and celebrated. She hadn't been a temple of all that was valuable and worthy.

  None of that.

  She'd been nothing but a dump for my pain and darkness and selfishness.

  I couldn't see her, but I felt her, and she took that journey with me, into the deepest hollows of my soul. Her eyes widened in surprise and maybe a little sympathy.

  "Richard," she whispered, and it was the voice she'd used in her most tender and generous moments, when times had been good, when we were virgins to each other, exploring and brave and not walled off from one another.

  "I'm sorry," I said, and that was enough. For the first time in my life, I'd said it without an inaudible "But..." trailing after it, backloaded with a litany of justifications and excuses for pathetic and cowardly behavior.

  Tears
ran down our shared cheeks, and they were as warm as the Pacific Ocean in August, as cool as lovers' sheets when the sweat is evaporating, as hot as Diana's cavorting flames of Hell, as icy as the finger of The Grim Reaper when he taps on your shoulder and beckons you home.

  "Did you love me?" she said, and I embraced her as well as I could while wearing the same arms as hers.

  "Yes, and I still do," I said, and it was true and not at all contradictory. I looked at Lee, who seemed frozen in the real world, hunched over the note, achingly gorgeous and radiating all the light I'd come to appreciate. This love didn't mean I was cheating or that I was in any way diminished or duplicitous.

  I hadn't realized in my stinginess that there is not a limited supply of love, and that it flows through us from someplace beyond us, someplace better than us. And we are only conduits, and our job is to simply keep the pipeline open and let it gush instead of tightening the valves through our fears.

  "I love you and I always will," I said. "Forever."

  That confession must have leaked through the borders of the dead and living, because Lee's head lifted. She looked over at the portion of the wall where I was immersed in my dead wife.

  "Finish it," the goon commanded.

  Lee gave a wry twist of her lip, turning up one corner in a smile that somehow seemed a secret signal. Approval, maybe? Understanding?

  Diana's warmth flooded me, all the verdant, fecund moistness in which she'd enveloped me countless times, and I felt her rising into the ether.

  "Mission accomplished," she said. "I'm free now."

  And the resentment was gone, just like that, swept up on a breeze as I wished her Godspeed and happiness.

  The last echo was her whisper. "I love you, too."

  Diana's work was done, but mine wasn't. I brushed the invisible tears away and took inventory of my powers. Even without flesh, I had carried a heavy weight around inside, and somehow dragging it into the light had killed the poisoned darkness inside. Still, my spiritual batteries had been drained by my stubborn clinging to old ways, past damage, and unrequited guilt.