by Patti Abbott
“Come back when you have something new,” Ted said, on his way down the steps. She wasn’t sure if he meant photographs or sex.
Her current boyfriend, Bill Fontenel, noticed the mirror immediately. He was an undertaker Violet had met at a funeral on the eastside of Detroit.
“Did you hang that thing up there for the aesthetics?” Bill asked when he saw it. She nodded, pleased that he both got and didn’t mind it. Most men seemed to think she’d placed it there as an evaluation tool.
Afterwards her thoughts returned to the funeral. “He was an elegant man.”
“Dead people aren’t elegant,” Bill told her, massaging the scar on her hip absentmindedly. “But they’re closer to it after I spend some time with them.”
“Is that your niche?” she asked, shifting her position. “Why people come to you, I mean?”
He nodded. “The ones who never looked good in life—the ugly, messed-up ones, ravaged ones, get my best work. That’s the deal. If they look good resting in my house, how can death be so bad?”
“Are you trying to convince their families or yourself?”
“You,” he said, finding the spot again.
“You’ll never convince me.”
It was nearly two when the phone rang one night. “Yeah,” she said, grabbing her cell. “And you better not be some barroom drunk!”
“No, it’s me. Can you drive down here?”
“Right now?” she asked, looking at the clock.
Since it wasn’t like Bill to make unusual demands, she went quickly.
“Down in the prep room.” he said, leading the way. She hadn’t even known till then exactly what they called it—the place he prepared the dead. The stink—formaldehyde, she guessed—was overwhelming. Few tools were evident although surgical masks, scalpels, and incisors rested on a stand.
“Over here,” Bill said, walking toward a stainless steel table where a covered corpse rested.
“Whoa,” she said. “Not someone I know, is it?”
Bill shook his head, and pulling the cover back, gradually exposed the body of young black man dressed in a maroon and black-striped shirt with a pair of skimpy black shorts. His spiked shoes were well-worn, and his knees were wrapped in bandages—the type athletes wore.
“Young,” she said, stepping forward.
“Twenty-four.” He made a small adjustment to the hands.
She peered down. It was impossible to believe there’d ever been a beating heart beneath this inert chest. Yet there was a stateliness about him despite the almost comical uniform. “What happened?”
“Someone ran into him at a rugby match—a truck of a halfback. Turned out our fellow had an aneurysm. Never knew what hit him.”
“They really want him laid out in shorts with wrapped knees?”
“His uniform,” Bill told her, his eyes still on the body. “His team mates will be expecting it.” He looked at her. “Okay, here’s the thing. His parents—they’re over in Manchester, England—they want a picture.”
“Isn’t that a strange request?” But the idea of taking his picture was making her fingers itch already.
“They haven’t seen him in a few years. Came over to attend college and stayed on. I’m sending him back, but the coffin will be closed.”
“You should have told me to bring my camera,” she said suddenly, looking around.
“I have a camera. Usually Ron does it, but he’s on vacation. And this guy’s not gonna wait till Ron gets back.”
“I’ll bring my Deardorff next time. It takes terrific formal shots for an—occasion—like this.” She was already thinking of a next time. That there’d be more pictures of dead people. Together they stretched Reggie out again, propping him up slightly.
Later, in the darkroom, she was amazed at how much she liked the pictures as the images rose up like Lazarus in her soup. The camera had invested the corpse with even more grandeur than Bill’s handiwork had done. The photos were beautiful, but eerie—grotesque. She hadn’t known she liked grotesque.
“His friends really dug the pictures,” Bill told her a few days later. “Or maybe that’s the wrong word.” He thought a second. “Admired them. Did good work, baby.” He was lying in her bed, examining himself in the mirror, pinching flesh recently thickened at his waist. He was propped up against the headboard—several pillows under his neck, legs crossed, a crossword puzzle half-done.
“I’d like to try it again, Bill. I think I know how to make the shots more striking. I could shoot from a ladder—well, a stepstool perhaps. Maybe make the lighting more dramatic. And certainly use the Deardorff.”
Bill looked at her. “Hey, you really got off on it, huh? I’ll have to ask the families first.”
“I don’t guess there’s anyone down there right now?”
He stood up and grabbing his shirt, began buttoning it. “Woman in her nineties. Want her picture?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll stick to younger men. Say men under forty. They’re prettier. Maybe it’ll make a statement.” When he didn’t say anything, she added. “The way they die here. In Detroit.”
“Didn’t know you made statements.”
“So you’ll let me know when you have someone?” She was out of bed, straightening the sheets, trying not to seem too eager.
He nodded. “Remember though, I can’t just let you shoot them without permission. And it might not work out every time. Things can move pretty fast.”
“I’m always around.”
“That’s true,” he admitted. “You are always around.”
“Think they’ll mind? The families, I mean.”
“Hard to say.”
“I think I can make something out of this.” This time she’d clear Ted’s walls.
Both of them were surprised at how few people objected. Most clients willingly signed the standardized release Bill’s attorney drew up. They usually asked for a complimentary copy of the photo—through Bill, of course. She never met them.
Maybe they asked for the pictures because the men were still young and beautiful. Most had died in a car accident, a gang shooting, and one later from wounds suffered in a roadside attack in Iraq. To her eye, every face bore a slightly surprised look. Death had tripped them up, taken them at an unexpected time—when their chin was still firm, their skin smooth, their lips full.
Her subjects were African American since Bill’s clientele, along with Bill himself, was black. She hadn’t thought of doing all black portraits, but it seemed right. She took eight portraits in two months—never imagining the number would mount so quickly, shooting each picture on a stepladder from the same angle since the height created a certain mood.
Bill was always there—watching. More and more she admired his skill in making someone dead seem—if not alive—at least someone to be reckoned with. A certain vibrancy rose from the bodies, an aura she thought of as afterdeath as she watched the images rise in her darkroom.
The men were dressed elegantly. If the decedents at most funerals seemed dressed for church, Bill’s loved ones looked like they were going to the opera, to a grand ball, a wedding reception, Mardi Gras. They wore top hats and tuxedoes in peacock colors, shirts and ties in a satiny texture and hue. Bill refused to dress them in gang regalia, but sometimes allowed rap costumes or athletic uniforms if the family requested it.
“They’re going to the Party,” Bill told her. “That’s how I think of it.”
Violet quickly got used to seeing dead bodies—was surprised, in fact, at how little it bothered her. Bill taught her how to apply makeup, (or cosmetics in his parlance), how to dress their hair and beards. Their fingernails.
“You’re a natural,” he told her. “I’ll let you do me when the time comes.”
“I’m not taking the camula to you— if that’s what you mean,” she joked, looking at the instrument used for embalmment. She’d only watched the embalming process once—and only for a few minutes—since it could take hours.
“Ron
can do that part. He’s the ghoul, and you’re the artiste.”
“You’re not dying any time soon, Bill. You’re young.”
“So were your subjects,” he reminded her.
Violet had been sitting on the eight finished photographs for a month when she ran into Ted in the post office.
“Hey,” he said. “How you doing, Miss Violet. Still snapping hotels on their way to the wrecking ball?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to my last implosion. Hey, I wonder if you’d like to see what I’ve been up to recently.”
“Now is good.”
Back in her apartment, Ted stood looking silently at the photographs. “Shit,” he said. “This stuff’s gonna to make you. It’ll be the best work I’ve ever hung. Talk about edgy. You’re on the ledge of edge. You could probably get a show in Chicago.” He put a finger to his lips. “Forget I said that. Have any more?”
She shook her head. “Things have been slow this week.”
Ted laughed sharply. “Wow, you’ve gotten jaded.” He looked at the portraits again. “Well, eight’s not quite enough. You could make them bigger, but I don’t know. Size seems right. Let’s say ten at least, though a dozen would be even better. Damn, I have a nice hole in the schedule next month. Too bad.”
“Not too bad! Put me on the schedule.” Her heart was pounding.
His hand was on the doorknob. “I’d have to start advertising in next week or so to make it pay off.”
“We’re coming up on Halloween. Things always happen then. This is Detroit.” Her voice grew shrill. “I’ll have the ten, don’t worry.”
It meant everything to her, this chance to be reckoned with.
Except no one died. It felt like a broken promise, no dead bodies on Halloween in Detroit. The day after, she called Bill early.
“Anything going on?” she asked.
“Nothing for you.” There was annoyance in his voice and not for the first time.
“I thought with Halloween…”
“Look, I’ve got a little girl waiting….”
“Oh, God, a little girl?” She couldn’t use a little girl, God knows.
He misunderstood, of course and his tone softened. “Never stood a chance.”
“That’s so sad,” she said, getting it in time. She paused and counted to three. “Can you come over later?”
He came over. “I thought you’d forgotten how nice this was,” he said. “Lately I’ve been feeling like your pimp—‘cept I’m procuring bodies instead of Johns. And it gets me down—a black man bringing black men to a white lady.”
She decided to take a chance. “Look, Bill, I have an opportunity for a show. Guy with a gallery in Ferndale saw my stuff and loved it.” She looked at his down-turned mouth. “Jeez, Bill, why do you think I’ve been taking these pictures?”
He sighed. “I know, I know. But it’s all you think about lately.” He looked up at the ceiling as the guy upstairs began his nightly routine. “Christ! Just what I need. My head’s already pounding. Are you ever going to talk to him about pickin’ another time to do that?”
“I’ll talk to him” she said. “And look, after I get the last two photos, I’ll find something else.”
“Two and that’s it?” He took his eyes off the ceiling long enough to look skeptical. “Anyway, I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop. Maybe it’ll be kids with cancer or hookers with prosthetic limbs, but it’s bound to be something. Something dead or near dead.”
“I’m getting bored with it,” she lied. “There’s only so much you can do with the deceased.”
“Tell that to a necrophiliac.”
Her ninth photograph was a teenager. The youngest yet, barely sixteen and a star athlete. He’d caught an errant bullet in the head in a gang hit. Her palms were wet with excitement when Bill called to tell her the kid was in his prep room.
“Listen, his parents don’t want him identified if you show his portrait in some gallery.”
“I’ve never asked for any of their names, Bill. I just assigned each a number.”
“You gave them numbers, huh? They’re just bodies to you, aren’t they?”
“They are just bodies, Bill. What else could they be?”
“They could be loved ones.”
“I don’t think you get it, Bill. I’m trying to do something here, too. You’re making your living from the dead. Why can’t I?” She shrugged and took the photographs quickly, sensing his impatience.
“See you tonight?” she asked at the door. He paused and then nodded. She had to keep him on her side—for a little longer at least.
Ted called later. ‘Look, Vi,” he said as soon as she picked up the phone. “My lawyer says you need to get a waiver from this undertaker dude too—not just the families. Get him to sign off on it. Acknowledge that the pictures are yours alone, that he won’t ask for a share in any future profits. It’s not just about the money either. No telling when he might get scruples,” Ted sighed into the receiver. “I wish I’d thought of this angle earlier. Anyway, I’m messaging the waiver to you now. Have him sign it and get it right back to me.”
“What?” she asked, not quite understanding. “Bill wouldn’t ask for money. He’s not like—”
“What if you’re suddenly famous?” Ted broke in. “Raking it in. Can you be sure he won’t want his cut?”
She paused. “I guess not.” She couldn’t imagine handing Bill that document. He’d storm out of the room.
“Alright then,” Ted said finally, his voice recapturing its natural calm. “Any luck on the last picture? I can’t wait much longer.”
“I’m working on it.”
When they finished making love, Bill half-dozing under the light throw, she threw on a robe and headed for the kitchen.
“Just relax, baby,” she said. “I’ve got everything under control.” She was still struggling with lighting the broiler when she heard the sound of that damned treadmill going upstairs. “Sorry, Bill,” she called out. “Thought we were done with that damned treadmill.”
“I’m used to it,” Bill called back. “It’s background music—the big drum roll at the end.”
It sounded like her neighbor was descending through the ceiling. There was some sort of a roaring sound—maybe from inside the air shaft? But quickly the roar, or really a sort of cracking, splitting sound grew loud enough that she knew it had to be inside her apartment. She bolted through the living room and looked into her bedroom just in time to see the mirror pull away from the bedroom ceiling and drop with frightening velocity onto the bed. It plunged the eleven feet as if it had been fired, the full weight hitting directly below, which was where Bill lay.
He was propped up in her bed, his head cushioned by pillows. His face, which registered some small surprise, was untouched. It seemed too ludicrous to be true. Surely he’d shrug the mirror aside, dump it onto the floor, and smile over at her. But the weight of the mirror must have killed him instantly or possibly induced an immediate heart attack. She watched helplessly as small pieces of paint or plaster began to rain on top of the mirror and Bill. His hair turned white from the downpour in seconds—like some terrible aging process had been set into motion. Sickeningly, inappropriately, the sound of the fucking treadmill continued relentlessly above her. Her neighbor had no idea of what lay below him. It was the bolts that gave way, not the ceiling itself. Violet stood there counting the beats of her heart or the thumps of the treadmill; she wasn’t sure which.
Breaking loose from her stupor, she raced across the room, managing with great exertion, to slide the mirror off Bill. She cleared the plaster away as the tears fell hard and fast. And suddenly she was screaming, throwing herself on him, and begging him not to be dead. And still the treadmill continued its march above her.
White dust had covered her when she finally rose. Tears stung her throat, plugged by a final pent-up scream. With great effort, she stopped crying. Like an automaton, and despite what her heart told her, she went for her camera, setting it
up as fast as she could, adding the light bar, finding the proper stool to stand on, making the necessary adjustments. Bill would need a little makeup, she thought stonily, looking through the viewfinder.
She walked into the bathroom and grabbed her makeup case, still on the sink from her own preparations for the evening. She didn’t have the range of cosmetics Bill kept for this work; her cover-up was really too light for a black man. In the mirror, some harridan stared back at her. Violet was screaming, of course, but only in her head.
She returned to her work. Bill was naked and she had the sense he must be left as undisturbed as possible. She shot a dozen pictures, then a dozen more, memorizing his body as she’d never done in life. She shot until her eyes were blurry with the effort. She shot until she knew she had to move on and finish up her job here. The rest of it: the part she couldn’t bear.
So she cleaned Bill of the makeup, carefully stripping away the evidence of her intrusion, making him look like any dead man at the scene of an accident. After that, she sat still for ten minutes, composing herself. Then she walked across the room, found the business card near the phone, and called Ted. She knew he wasn’t the right person to call first, but she did it anyway.
I AM MADAME X’s BODYGUARD
And I won’t pretend the job didn’t cause me grief.
“Weren’t you the guy who babysat Joe Piney in the eighties,” Heck Hobart reminded me, shoving his boney elbow into my gut the night I finally confessed my new gig.
Yeah, I’d been with Joe Armone when he shook down those pansy Christmas tree vendors and was dubbed Joe Piney. One of my longest engagements, time I’d finally proved I was a stand-up guy.
“And you’re pissing on your days with Joey Bananas in Tucson?” another guy said, shaking his head.
I clenched my fists at the shower of insults but said nothing. Like Baldy had ever been more than a babbo.
