by Ann M. Noser
“Well, there was this creepy smiley face painted on one of the trees. I showed it to Officer Walker.”
“He was there?” Steve shudders as he stares at the blood.
“I guess you didn’t see his patrol car. But don’t worry―I got rid of him.”
Steve nods. “What did he want?”
“Nothing new. He’s always showing up and asking questions.”
“Isn’t that his job?” Bernard surveys the kitchen cupboard contents. “What should we eat? I vote for something hot. Does anyone else feel like soup tonight?”
“Soup’s fine with me, Bernard.” Steve continues to gaze at the rod in my hands. “I think you should give that to him.”
“To Officer Walker? The most annoying police officer ever? Why? I was just going to throw it away.”
Steve’s eyes fly open in alarm. “Don’t throw it away!”
“What should I say to him? ‘Hello, Officer Walker, I found some garbage, and I thought of you. So, here you go, have an ugly, old bent rod.’” I stash the pole in the back of the coat closet. “Steve, sometimes you have the strangest ideas.”
“Sometimes I think I’m the only reasonable one here. Once you’re all done showering, I’ll tell you my plan.” Steve pointed to his papers on the table. “I propose an arrangement.”
“What kind of arrangement?” Mike asks.
“I figure that none of us knows how much time we have left, so we should divide it up equally from now on.” Steve shifts the papers around, pulling a graph to the forefront. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I plan to get a job.”
“How on earth are you going to get a job?” I ask. “You don’t have any sort of identification.”
“Just watch me,” Steve says. “I’ll get the kind of job that doesn’t require identification.”
I don’t like the sound of this. “You’re not planning to do something illegal, are you?”
“Don’t worry. It will all be legal. I’ll find work and pay my own way. It’s not fair to make Emma take on all the financial responsibility for the rest of us.” He speaks as if I’m not even in the room anymore.
“I agree,” Mike says. “I feel like I’m taking advantage of her.”
I head into the hot shower to sulk, leaving the three of them gathered around my table to insult my hospitality in private.
After my shower, I come back out into the common space and notice Steve changed the whiteboard slogan again.
“There are really only three types of people:
those who make things happen (me, Steve),
those who watch things happen (Bernard),
and those who wonder what happened (Mike).”
―Mary Kay Ash
“So what kind of person am I?” I wonder aloud.
No one answers.
s the sun rises in the east, Mike, Bernard, and Steve morph back into the same body.
After breakfast I stand up to leave and set my bowl in the sink. “See you tonight.”
“See you then.” Steve pulls up the Internet help-wanted ads.
I glance at the screen and hoist my backpack over my shoulder. “So, according to ‘the schedule’, you get to go first?”
“Bernard said I can do what I want until his wife comes home.”
“And what about Mike?”
“He still feels bad about skipping ahead in line, so he told us to divide his time between the two of us.”
“Oh.” Somehow, this arrangement doesn’t seem fair.
When I get back to the apartment that night, no one else is home. I feel hungry for something that doesn’t come from a box or bag, so I dig out my small recipe box and make a casserole.
Steve finally walks in after eight p.m.
“Hey, Steve. There’s noodle hot dish if you want some. I have to admit, I miss your cooking.”
“That sounds great. I’m starving. And I’ll have to figure out some way to work and still cook for Abby.”
“Where have you been all day?” I clear off some space on the kitchen table where I’m studying.
“I told you.” He takes off his coat. “I got a job.”
“What? Already? What kind of job?”
“Shoveling and painting.”
“You can’t paint outside in this weather.”
“But you can indoors.” He spoons some of the noodle hot dish onto a plate. “I can also fix minor plumbing issues. Tomorrow I’m going to build some shelves for Bertha and help organize her closets.”
“Who’s Bertha?”
“Oh, I forgot.” Steve gets up and goes over to his coat. He pulls out a plastic baggie loaded with cookies and bars. “Try these.”
I select a lemon bar and take a bite. “Wow, these are good!”
He smiles. “Working for the old ladies comes with benefits.”
The next night, it’s the same thing. Steve comes home late with another bag full of goodies.
“What did you do today, honey?” I bite into a date-filled cookie. “Abby and I already ate.”
“Oh, good. Well, after I finished with Bertha’s closets, I recaulked her bathroom tile.” Steve dives into the chicken and rice casserole I made.
I nod, still chewing.
“Then I showed her how to e-mail her grandkids.”
“You’re a total schmoozer, aren’t you? I bet she just adores you.”
He smirks. “Yup. Bertha called up three of her bingo friends and got me work for the rest of the week.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Tomorrow I’m taking Sandie to the Piggly Wiggly for groceries.” Steve polishes off his plate and goes back for seconds. “She said to make sure her baked goods and eggs don’t get crushed.”
“I think you can handle that.” I peruse the plate of goodies, deciding what to eat next.
Steve works almost every day, including weekends, and yet he can barely keep up with the demand for his services.
On Friday, he hands me a roll of cash. “This is for rent.”
“How is this possible?” I ask.
“There’s plenty of work if you look for it and don’t charge outrageous fees. My only stipulation is that I get paid in cash.”
Within a week, Steve receives more messages on my answering machine than I do.
“Check this out, Emma.” He gestures to a phone call chart he put up on the whiteboard to keep score. “Even in death, I’m more popular than you.”
“That’s not true!” I look at the big “zero” under my name and the fifteen tally marks under his. “My parents called three times this week.”
“Okay, if you want to count family.” Steve erases the “zero” and writes “mummy―three” underneath my name.
“Very funny. It’s not like any of the women calling you are of dating potential.”
“The only men who call you are your father, Tony your tutoring boss, and one real nosy cop.”
“At least the people calling me know my real name.” It’s a mean thing to say, but he’s being annoying.
“You know I don’t care for the names Jake or Sam or Sam-Jake. But it’s confusing enough for people the way it is, we can’t be changing the name again for my sake.”
“That’s true,” I agree. “Did you drive by Bernard’s house again today?”
“Yes.” Bernard glimmers to the forefront. “Claire still isn’t home.”
Steve takes over the body, arching his eyebrows. “But now we have an ‘in’ there.”
Huh? “How so?”
“While driving by, I noticed an old lady fussing with her mailbox.”
“And you stopped to help, I’ll bet.”
“That’s right.” Steve nods. “Her name is Gretta, and she was pretty miffed that her mailbox had just gotten knocked down by the snowplow again for the third time this year.”
“Did you know this Gretta woman?” I ask Bernard.
“Yes.” Bernard sighs, coming to the front again. “She’s the neighborhood busybody.”
S
teve grins. “And we’re working at her house tomorrow.”
“How was Gretta today?” I ask the following night during another late supper.
“She’s quite a character,” Steve says. “Her back’s a little hunched, which is why she has trouble reaching anything over her head. And her glasses are really thick.”
“Poor thing.” I think about how dependent I am on my own eyewear.
“She doesn’t seem to mind,” Steve says.
“Yes, she’s always been a cheerful enough soul,” Bernard says. “But don’t ever tell her a secret unless you want the entire state to know about it.”
“After I fixed her mailbox,” Steve says. “We went into her kitchen where all her cats kept sniffing me. I think they had trouble figuring out what I was.”
Bernard grimaces. “Gretta lets those dirty cats walk all over everything―the countertops, the kitchen table, her bed.”
“They followed me around the whole time we were there,” Steve continues. “It’s a good thing they can’t talk, or I think they would have told on us. They always say cats are smarter than people.”
“Good grief!” scoffs Bernard.
“What jobs did Gretta have for you to do?” I ask.
“First, I reorganized all the top shelves in her closets,” Steve says. “Because she can’t reach them.”
“What a waste of time,” Bernard snorts. “If she hasn’t been able to reach any of that stuff for twenty years, she doesn’t need it.”
“Then, as I was cleaning out a shower drain, Gretta informed me she had to go check on a neighbor’s cat down the street.” Steve pauses dramatically. “I convinced her to let me escort her, so she wouldn’t break a hip. And, would you believe it, she led me straight to Claire’s house.”
“Bernard, I didn’t know you had a cat!”
“I didn’t,” he grumbles.
Steve smirks. “Why don’t you tell Emma the cat’s name?”
Bernard crosses his arms. “No.”
Steve elbows me. “It’s Bernie.”
I laugh aloud at the wretched look on Bernard’s face. “Oh no. Poor Bernard.”
Mike glimmers to the front. “Yeah, he just about had a fit when he heard that.”
“Fortunately, Gretta is half-deaf and visually impaired, so she didn’t notice,” Steve says.
“Did you find out where Claire is?” I ask.
Bernard throws up his hands. “She’s on a cruise with her sister, Dorothy.”
“The one that you hate,” I remember.
“You’ve got that right,” Bernard agrees. “She’s probably telling her how lucky she is that I’m dead. Lord knows, she did everything she could to keep us from getting married in the first place. But that was years ago. What worries me now is the state of the house. Claire used to be so tidy.”
“I didn’t think it looked that bad,” Mike offers.
“But why weren’t there any Christmas decorations up? Claire always loved the holidays. Why did she get a cat and name it after me? And the kitchen looked like a health hazard. That isn’t like my Claire at all.”
“We’ll think of something,” I promise.
“Don’t worry,” Bernard says. “I’ve already decided what to do. Claire will be back at the end of the week. I’m going to break into my house tonight and wait there until her return.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bernard,” Steve argues. “We’re not breaking into your house. What a total waste of time.”
“There’s something wrong with Claire,” Bernard insists. “And I aim to fix it.”
Steve shakes his head. “Mike and I won’t let you break in. Besides, you’d only scare your wife half to death.”
“I suppose you’ve got a better idea?” Bernard says.
“Yes, I do,” Steve replies. “I can easily manipulate Gretta. I’ll trick her into letting me fix up the place before Claire gets home. That will get us in, for starters.”
Bernard sighs. “Fine. But I still want to be there when Claire’s sister Dorothy arrives. I can’t stand that woman. Claire always made me promise to behave around Dorothy before, but now I can torment her in disguise. She’ll never even know I’m there. Oh, and Emma, we’ll need your help, too.”
“Okay…but don’t go off the deep end, Bernard.”
“I’ll try to control myself.” He smirks wickedly.
“Then I’m free after two on Friday.” What is Bernard up to now?
he next day starts out horrible and slides downhill from there. Somehow I end up being late to every single one of my classes. I keep spotting Amanda and her glamorous minions everywhere I turn. Whenever she comes into sight, I alter my route, so it always takes twice as long as necessary to get to class. Each time I tell myself I’m not a coward, I’m just too busy to deal with her at that exact moment.
My tutoring session doesn’t go well. The student I’ve been assigned to will most likely fail Algebra I for the third time, no matter what I do. And he’s really nice, so I feel bad about it.
After that, in my early-afternoon honors class, I get assigned to a group project with three of the most annoying people on campus. As I stew in silence, they spend the first fifteen minutes discussing their grades from last semester and how many honors classes they’re currently taking. Ugh. I hate braggity-bragsters, and my honors classes are simply stuffed with them.
I can’t wait for this class to end. Once the professor dismisses us, I stand up and cram my books in my bag, ignoring the others as they continue to talk. Free at last!
Then the zipper won’t budge. Oh come on!
“So, Emma, are you coming with us?” a male voice asks.
“What?” Crap! I wasn’t listening. What’s he talking about? And do I really even care?
Greg, the brainiac with a pointy head, has appointed himself the leader of our overintelligent group. I already can’t stand him. “We’re getting together at seven on Saturday at the Big Steer Steakhouse to work on our group project.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve got to spend my weekend with these people, too! How can I get out of this? “Uh… I’m a vegetarian,” I lie.
“That’s okay. I’m sure they have salads or something.” He grins and pats my back.
Ewwww. Don’t touch me, Mr. Q-tip Head. “Fine. I’ll meet you there,” I grumble and rush out of the room. In my hurry I trip going up the stairs, scattering my notes and bruising both shins.
In the middle of my next class, I check my calendar and realize I have two huge exams on the same day midsemester. Without thinking, I swear in dismay, interrupting the professor’s lecture. At least a dozen people turn around to gawk.
It is indeed a splendid day.
Needless to say, I’m not in the best of moods as I plod home to my apartment. Although I don’t usually mind their company, I hope my roommates are away working somewhere. Then I can go downstairs and complain to Abby in private.
I stop at the mailbox and flip through the mail. A letter from Laura Cunningham slips through my hands and falls to the floor. I gasp and bend down to grab it. Shocked to receive an actual letter from Jake’s sister, I immediately plop down on the indoor staircase and rip it open.
Laura writes as if we’re pen pals, asking me questions about college life and inquiring after Mike. It’s a short letter, but I suspect it was hard for her to decide what to say.
As I put the letter back in the envelope, something slips out.
A picture of Jake.
For a moment I can’t breathe.
“Hi, Emma!” Abby bursts out of her apartment. “How are you?”
“Um…” I shove the picture back into the envelope and stuff it into my backpack. “I just had the worst day. Have you got a minute?”
“Sure, I’m just getting my mail, too. Come on in.”
I go in her apartment and unload over a carton of ice cream. As I indulge in mint chip consolation, I note day care flyers on her kitchen counter.
For the next fifteen minutes, I whine
about my horrid honors class and the overfriendly Greg. Then through the window, I spy Mike walking up the sidewalk to the apartment building. Abby stands up and waves at him to come inside.
“Guess what?” Abby announces as Mike enters her apartment. “Emma’s been asked out by the most annoying guy on campus!”
“You have a date?” Mike balks.
“It’s not a date! I would never go out with that guy!” I protest, but the disbelief in Mike’s voice irritates me. I realize I’m not his dream girl, but he doesn’t have to insult me! It’s bad enough I have to waste my Saturday night on Mr. Q-tip Head, but now I have to pretend to be vegetarian, too. Man, this sucks.
That night alone in my room, I take Jake’s picture out of the envelope and stare at it. Just seeing his face again brings everything back in a mighty rush. I see him in my dorm room, lounging on my futon and reading my diary. I hear him sing at my parents’ Christmas party as I drown myself in alcohol. I watch him dash after his sister across the crisp, white snow.
I miss him so much.
Even though I know better, I put Johnny Cash’s version of “Hurt” on my small CD player. I sit yoga-style on my bed, listening to the words. The melody makes my chest hurt even worse.
Why am I doing this to myself? I collapse flat onto the bed and groan into my pillow. After a few minutes, the song starts over.
“Enough of this!” I stomp across the room and snap off the CD player. Then I reach in my closet to pull out a shirt and accidentally knock over my witchcraft supply bag.
Candles roll all the way across the floor and hit the bookshelf.
The Book of Shadows slides off the shelf and lands with a thud on the floor. The pages flutter open to a spell for communicating with the dead.
“No way.” I grab the book and shove it back on the shelf. “I’m gonna go take a shower now, and there’ll be no more of this funny business when I get back.”
I grab pajamas, feeling foolish for talking to myself, and flee the room.
Upon my return, I discover one of Jake’s sweatshirts folded neatly on my bed, with his picture cradled on top and the Book of Shadows alongside. I pick up the sweatshirt, and a hint of Jake’s aftershave hits me.
