Elspeth came home from the hospital a day later, under firm orders to relax and stay away from cigarettes. “Bugger that,” she had said, much to everyone’s amusement. Her first act upon being discharged had been to issue a proclamation that everyone would be staying for dinner, and that Dennis was to invite Alena to come along as well. It was definitely fortunate that he and Bobo had visited the house earlier in the day, and with Spinner’s reluctant help, had cleaned up the mess that they had made. If Elspeth had noticed that her good tablecloth was missing, she had remained tactfully silent about it.
The meal had been excellent, and the ride home was, for once, a lighthearted one. Alena was in the driver’s seat, with one hand on the wheel and the other holding Dennis’.
“Ghosts, huh?” she asked.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Dennis looked out the window. “It really makes you wonder what else is out there.”
Alena nodded her agreement. “Elspeth explained most of it, but I’m still not clear on what actually happened.”
“With Evy, you mean?” He yawned widely. “It’s pretty simple. She hid the key, and Eric couldn’t find it after she died. I don’t think he really looked, though, since he felt partially responsible. It stayed hidden until Evy showed up, eight years ago.”
“Where was it?”
Dennis laughed as he answered. “In the chair, of all places. Elspeth found it in one of the cushions. I guess Evy thought it would be safe there.”
“Looks like she was right,” answered Alena. “So, Sam closed his practice. I saw some movers loading that couch of his this morning.”
“I hope they burned his wife’s paintings,” replied Dennis. Alena thumped her hand on the steering wheel.
“Damn it! I forgot!” She gestured towards the rear of the car. “I wanted to give that to Elspeth.” Dennis turned to see a foot-long abstract sculpture lying on the backseat. He lifted it up, examining the graceful green curves.
“What is it?”
“Jade.”
“I can see that,” Dennis replied patiently. Sometimes his wife’s humor was as bad as his own. “I meant what is it?”
“I don’t know what it’s supposed to be. Look at the etching, though.”
“Where?”
“On the bottom, Dennis.”
He turned the sculpture over, and squinted in the dim light. “What does it say?” he asked. Alena quoted a date from memory, some twenty years back, followed by a name.
“E. Palin,” she said.
“Wow.” Dennis looked at the sculpture with new interest. “Elspeth made this?”
“No, silly, her father did. I found it in that antique store where you got your hat. I was looking for a get-well present for Antonio, and there it was.”
“Huh.” He gingerly replaced it in the back seat. “Well, I’ll give it to her for you when I see her tomorrow.”
“Are you going over with Bobo?”
“Yeah,” Dennis said. “We just have to take care of some... unfinished business.”
Epilogue
The man called September stood with his hands on his hips, staring at a clockwork contraption of monolithic proportions. It came up past his head, although some of that height was provided by the table upon which it rested. Supposedly, the object was going to be sold as a means of predicting the future, but when he turned the dials as directed, the mechanical display came back with gibberish. He was told that he was using it wrong.
A few customers entered the store, and were hurriedly greeted by a dreadlocked man with a thick, booming, and entirely made-up accent. They were going to hold a séance, they explained, and wondered if the shop carried Ouija boards. Dennis smiled to himself. It was amazing, really, how often people missed what was right in front of them. He waited for the group to leave, obviously ecstatic about their purchase, and then tried the machine again. This time, a gear popped loose.
Bobo muttered that it was a work in progress.
They conversed for awhile, mostly about a new film they had seen, until a friendly knock on the window signified that Alena was finished with her shopping. The pair shook hands, and Dennis promised to stop by and see the clockwork monstrosity again when it was finished. He walked slowly towards the exit, taking in the smell of incense and navigating his way past the trinkets, crystals, and baubles that were precariously arranged on every available surface. The chimes above the door jangled as he opened it, and Dennis turned back briefly, raising one hand with a departing smile.
Anyone watching would have thought that he was waving to the shop’s exuberant owner and not, as it was, to the brown cushioned armchair, clearly marked as not for sale.
About the Author
Since he first learned to speak, Max Patrick Schlienger has been telling stories. Unfortunately, despite having been given ample opportunity and encouragement, he has yet to master the art of shutting the hell up. In an effort to avoid being completely shunned by his friends and family, Max finally took to writing his stories down. He intends to continue in the glamorous profession of making stuff up until such time as the position of Superman becomes available.
When he's not wasting time on the Internet or pretending to understand elements of theoretical physics, Max can often be found making short films, singing acappella music, and participating in ill-conceived culinary experimentation. He lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area, where a video game company pays him to break things and then brag about it.
There is no currently-existing evidence to refute Max's claims of his own immortality, insofar as he is not yet dead.
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