by Tonya Hurley
“Don’t you remember that first day in the intake office? How afraid you were, alone. And who was there for you? I was. Through all of it, Charlotte. How could you forget all that?”
Charlotte was rifling through her mental file as Pam spoke. She seemed to be trying to attach Pam’s words to her own recollections. Unsuccessfully.
“Teen Alzheimer’s?”
Pam wasn’t in a joking mood.
“Don’t you care about us? Isn’t there any part of you that misses us? That loves us?”
“So, is this a trip to the future or a guilt trip?” Charlotte asked. “I thought ghosts were supposed to be scary, not whiny.”
“What about Eric?”
His name had a ring of familiarity to it. Charlotte tensed up and then went suddenly blank.
“There are other fish in the sea.”
“You are breaking my heart, Charlotte,” Pam whispered. “If I could still cry, I’d never stop.”
“I’m sorry.” Charlotte paused, reaching tentatively for the shadow and struggling to recall her name. “Pam?”
“Me too.”
“Don’t be sad. You’re immortal now, right? No more pain, no more suffering. Just an eternity of . . .”
“Yeah, that’s right. Just an eternity.”
“Take care,” Charlotte said sympathetically. “If it makes sense to say that to someone who’s already dead.”
“You too, Charlotte,” Pam replied, glittering stars falling all around her one last time before she disappeared into them. “Remember the future.”
12
Slay Ride
Season’s Needings
At Christmas, we often dream of things we really want but not the things we need. Love, respect, and understanding can easily take second place to the latest gadget or gemstone, leaving us richer in things but not in spirit. Is it a little piece or a little peace that we are truly after? As we put our lists together, it might be worthwhile to take a closer look at what we put at the top.
Petula arrived at the funeral home early. She wasn’t used to being the first on the scene, but she felt obliged, it being Christmas Eve and, more important, it pretty much being a fund-raiser in her honor. She loved secrets, except ones that were kept from her, and she took a certain amount of pride in having dug this one out of Damen, and now she even was early enough to have some input on the event itself.
Petula spied an employee salting and shoveling the sidewalks near the front entrance and approached him.
“Who runs this meat locker?”
The man pointed up the sidewalk at the front door and the red-suited figure standing in it.
“Is there a golf cart or limo or something that can drive me there?” Petula ordered.
“It’s just a few yards, miss.” The man shrugged.
“Can’t you put your jacket down or something for me to walk on?” Petula complained. “These heels cost a fortune, and I won’t be able to return them if the soles are ruined.”
The man took off his threadbare parka in the freezing cold and laid it down, dragging it along a few feet at a time for Petula to step upon as she made the brief journey. Petula was moved by the act of fealty and felt it required some sort of acknowledgment on her part.
“Well, José Feliciano, or whatever you people say to each other at Christmas.”
“You mean Feliz Navidad?”
“Rude! I was just trying to be nice. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Neither do I,” he said, returning to his chores.
Exasperated, Petula trudged off to vent at the showroom Santa. In the cold dusk, all Mr. Wormsmoth could discern was a determined figure, silhouetted by billows of swirling breath rising on the frigid breeze, coming closer and closer, like an angry fairy-tale dragon from some ancient Norse legend. A glamorous one, no less. Sharp nails, big teeth, and a long mane of hair coming right for him.
“Welcome, miss. I’m Wormsmoth. Can I help you?”
“Is this where my Christmas party will be?” she puffed.
“Party?” he said, confused, reaching out his hand. “You mean burial.”
Petula recoiled at his suggestion.
“Oh no, you have me confused with The Wendys.”
“Well, you all look the same to me,” he said. “It’s just my line of work, you understand. You tend not to look too closely at the face. No offense.”
“None taken,” she said. “I don’t let very many people look at me directly either.”
“Speaking of which,” he said. “Would you like to see the caskets?”
“A sneak preview? Love it.”
Wormsmoth escorted her into a viewing room where sat two life-sized, oblong boxes, constructed completely of glass. The casket bottoms were each fitted with a frilly liner and pillow, which looked like it should get more points for style than comfort.
“You should call your line of coffins Fashionably Late,” Petula suggested as she walked over to the first coffin and gently stepped along the perimeter, her fingers sliding along the edge. This was her childhood fantasy, sans the death part of course. To be seen, displayed, presented like some sort of sleeping beauty was a fate devoutly to be wished. Still, the primary purpose for these coffins was inescapable. As rapidly as it had turned her on, it turned her off. She imagined herself pickled, floating in a jar, bloated, and then shriveled and nasty-looking for all to see forever. A lab experiment gone awry.
“You like?”
“Are you trying to sell me?” Petula asked.
“You are the target audience,” he explained. “Young, vain, rich.”
Petula was tempted, but stepped back.
“I don’t think I’ll be needing one for a while.”
Wormsmoth smiled a knowing smile, like a big-league batter thrown a softball right over the plate.
“Only two things certain in life.”
“I know, I know,” she interrupted dismissively. “Death and laxatives.”
“Taxes.”
“Whatever.”
“The difference is that we know exactly when our taxes come due.”
Something about what he said struck a chord. The flicker of uncertainty about her own longevity left her feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable, and she found herself attracted to him.
“Honestly, all this death talk is turning me on.”
“I’m about to load these in the hearse and drive them over to the convention,” Wormsmoth advised, with a Cheshire smile. “Need a lift?”
“Hey Eric,” a seductive siren of a voice beckoned.
Eric was sitting on the floor, noodling randomly on his guitar and deep in thought. He barely realized from whom the salacious greeting was spilling. He looked up indifferently.
“What’s up, Maddy?” Eric asked, a bit of suspicion in his voice.
Charlotte and the others had always been wary around her, never fully convinced of her otherworldy rehabilitation.
“You look so sad. It’s not right to be that way on Christmas.”
“Well, me and Charlotte are fighting, so I’m not feeling very jolly.”
“I heard,” Maddy purred sympathetically. “You guys fight a lot.”
Eric hadn’t thought much about that, but now that he did, Maddy was right.
“I didn’t think it was that obvious.”
“I’m not judging you or anything,” Maddy said. “Charlotte is just really hard to figure out sometimes.”
“Tell me about it.”
Maddy moved in a little closer.
“She’s always so busy working or reminiscing about the past or whatever,” Maddy continued. “It’s like she’s not really happy here, not present.”
Eric’s doldrums began to fade away and he was overcome by a sudden burst of enthusiasm.
“That was my point exactly!” Eric shouted. “You totally get it.”
“I mean, she left. Left you, left us,” she continued. “She doesn’t care what happens to us.”
“Hell yeah!”
“Well, maybe her loss is our gain,” Maddy offered.
“Our?” Eric said.
“You need to be with someone who appreciates you,” Maddy cooed, running her hands seductively along the neck of Eric’s guitar as he gulped anxiously. “Someone who can flip Electric Eric’s power switch.”
“P-p-power switch?” he stuttered, tensing up.
“Consider it an early Christmas gift,” Maddy teased.
“Good things come in tight packages, I always say,” Eric admitted.
She moved in closer still, twirling her hair around her finger. His defenses were dropping. He was losing his cool.
“You know what I always say,” she said in her best bombshell voice.
“Wh-wh-what?” Eric asked as Maddy moved in close enough to touch.
“I always say if I had a guy like Eric, I’d never treat him like that,” Maddy whispered in his ear.
“Treat him like what?” Prue hissed, blowing up Maddy’s seduction.
“Like crap, Prue,” Maddy responded angrily. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“Back off,” Mike ordered, using his lower-register howl to sound more threatening.
“Mind your own business.”
“Charlotte is my business,” Prue warned.
Eric came to his senses as the girls argued, and shoved Maddy away.
“Thanks, but I don’t need any help,” Eric said to them.
“On the contrary, you need a lot of help,” Maddy chided. “We all do, thanks to her.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve ever been right about,” Prue said. “We all owe Charlotte our thanks.”
“Chill everybody. What happened to peace on Earth and all that crap?” Eric asked.
“I haven’t been on Earth for a while, have you?” Maddy retorted bluntly.
“No, but I’m pretty sure being with you would be Hell,” Damen said.
“Well, we can ask your girlfriend all about Earth and getting a piece on it. That is, if she ever comes back.”
“Don’t talk about my girlfriend like that.”
“Your girlfriend? Please.”
“I think we’re done here,” Eric said, flashing her a scathing stink-eye.
“Yes, we’re all done here,” Maddy cracked, turning her attention to Prue and Mike. “It’s all bull anyway. If he really cared, he’d go get Charlotte himself.”
The others were silent.
“But he won’t,” Maddy said.
“What are you trying to say?” Eric inquired snidely.
“You’re afraid.”
“Of what?” Mike asked.
“Damen,” Maddy said coldly. “Don’t you all get it? Eric can’t measure up. Given the choice between the two of them, Eric loses every time.”
“I’m not scared of a memory,” Eric boasted.
Maddy just laughed, shook her moneymaker in their faces, and took off.
“See you in another life, Eric,” Maddy said, winking and wiggling away.
“Not if I see you first,” Eric answered.
“Same old Maddy,” Prue rasped.
“Same old Charlotte,” Maddy called back as she strutted out of view.
The hearse arrived at the Hawthorne Convention Center, “Jingle Bells” blaring so loudly from the radio it could be heard halfway across the lot. Petula hopped out, lipstick smeared, face flushed, and straightened her hair and miniskirt. Her vitality was reaffirmed.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said.
“Anytime,” Wormsmoth replied. “You sure know how to put the fun in funeral.”
“Don’t mention it,” Petula said. “I mean that literally, don’t mention it.”
“You only live once,” he said.
“Yes, and you wouldn’t want to spend it in prison, Wormhole.”
“Well, I’d better unload these caskets,” he said nervously and got right to work.
Just then, Damen and The Wendys rolled up. The dynamic ditzes spilled out of Damen’s car.
“It’s about time,” Petula protested a bit too much. “Little Saint Dick over there was about to cop a feel.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Wendy T. said, “but we weren’t expecting you.”
“No problem.” Petula winked. “I managed to fill . . . the time. Besides, I’ve never crashed a wake before.”
“We hate keeping secrets from you,” Wendy A. said apologetically.
“Secrets? Ha! I am the Christmas ninja,” Petula said gleefully.
“It’s so cool that you came.”
“No need to thank me. After all, I am the reason for the season. Yours, anyway.”
The girls air-kissed any resentment away. Temporarily.
“So, what now?” Petula asked.
“I need to set up,” Wormsmoth said. “Why don’t you all have a look around the convention and meet me at my booth in twenty minutes? Damen, you’ll be needed at the cemetery.”
“Sounds good,” Damen answered.
“See you inside, girls,” Wormsmoth concluded, patting the glass caskets and breaking out in a near-maniacal laugh.
“So you guys are really going through with this?” Petula said skeptically.
“Um, not exactly.”
“I knew it!” Petula was beyond furious.
“A friend of ours agreed to do it,” Wendy T. said.
“What friend?” Petula asked.
“That Charlotte girl from school.”
“You have got to be kidding,” Petula shouted. “Why would she do it?”
“For a small fee and . . .”
“And letting her sign your Christmas card. Don’t worry. The pen has invisible ink.”
“Wow,” Petula said in amazement.
The Wendys waited anxiously for the second shoe to drop, but Petula kicked up her heels instead.
“I am so proud of both of you,” Petula said unexpectedly. “You have just given a master class in cunning and duplicity. We should have videoed it.”
“We did,” Wendy T. said, tapping the camera app of her smartphone with a smile. “Evidence. Just in case she tried to renegotiate the deal at the last minute.”
“Yeah, that whole geek, nerd, loser thing she has going doesn’t fool me for a minute,” Wendy A. warned. “She’s crafty.”
“Like ice is cold,” Petula said, reaching her silver-and-gold holiday-ornamented nail wraps out for some Wendys love. Each Wendy slapped a claw on top of her hand in a show of unity and common purpose: Petula’s happiness.
“Speaking of cold,” Petula said, sliding her coat sleeves over her shivering hands, “where the hell is she?”
Charlotte took the long way around to the dealership, passing by the Kensington house on her way over. The oversized solid-colored bulbs from the old-fashioned string of Christmas lights that lit their tall Fraser fir tree burned warm in the cold moonlight and the plush and red-ribboned evergreen wreath on the door might as well have been a welcome sign.
There was love in this house. Charlotte could see it. Just as she couldn’t help not seeing it in her own. Despite the fighting and differences between Petula and Scarlet, they were a family. Maybe that—and not the cool clothes, aloofness, deadly hot boyfriend and off-the-charts popularity—was what really attracted her to these girls. They were two sides of a coin. A coin she’d once flipped and was lucky enough to have land right on its edge, both sides visible.
No matter what Virginia or Prue or even Pam said. Things could change for the better. And she could be the one to change them. In her own way and on her own terms. She didn’t need any supernatural powers to bring out in them what she knew was already there. She didn’t need to be a choker anymore; she didn’t need to die to prove it.
Scarlet looked out from the window of her darkened room at the solitary figure standing on the sidewalk. It appeared to be more a shadow than a person.
“Identify yourself,” Scarlet called out angrily from her parapet to the anonymous visitor.
“Charlotte Usher!” she called back.
“You again?”
Charlotte shrugged innocently. “Sorry.”
Scarlet stared down at the form quivering in the cold and took pity.
“Do you want to come in for a second?”
“Me?” Charlotte muttered. “You’re inviting me in?”
“Hurry up before I change my mind. The door is open.”
Charlotte run-walked up the path to the house before Scarlet could even get the words out, fully aware this was not a standing invitation. She ambled past the living room Christmas tree with the lights and the presents beneath that she’d admired from afar. They were even more beautiful up close. Not a pine needle, ribbon, or bow was out of place.
“Hello?”
“Up here,” Scarlet shouted.
Charlotte climbed the familiar steps and headed for Scarlet’s room. She was barely prepared for what she was about to encounter. On the door hung a black mourning wreath made up of vintage silk ribbon. Charlotte entered to find decorations, many of them handmade, from every winter tradition: a large evergreen tree spray-painted black with purple glittery pinecones and purple lights stood majestically in the corner, topped with black-feathered angel wings. The ornaments were jewel-toned, blown-glass skulls mixed with handmade balls découpaged with old album sleeves of her favorite records and old concert flyers, all mixed with black-and-white-twisted candy canes. Under the tree was the most original, coolest gift wrapping she’d ever seen. Each box was wrapped like a corset—silky fabric wrapping fastened with satin ribbon laced through grommets and then tied up the middle and into a big bow. It was so cool. So burlesque.
They’d never actually spent a Christmas together, but the décor was just what Charlotte had expected. She looked around for something else that might bond them and saw it sitting on Scarlet’s desk.
“What’s this?” Charlotte asked of the travel brochure lying on the desk.
“That’s for the Theater of Dolls,” Scarlet replied. “I’m planning the senior class trip.”
“Isn’t that in Poland?” Charlotte asked, knowing it would impress Scarlet that she knew.
“I can’t believe you know that.”
Charlotte was mesmerized and almost speechless at the phantasmagoric décor.
