by C. F. Waller
“When you put it like that,” I nod enthusiastically, “Go team.”
She snickers, indicating she was having fun at my expense. Rather than go into town, we fly along the Autobahn three exits and wind up in a place called Atherton, which I find odd, as it’s not a German title. She parks in front of a small town bank and abandons me in the car. When I balk at being left out of the loop, she rolls down the driver’s window several inches and suggests I wag my tail and people watch until she returns. This remark is not lost on me, which seems to amuse her further.
Upon her return, we park a few blocks down and enter an establishment with Pfannkuchen on the sign. This is apparently a pancake of some kind, although I stick to eggs and toast. Reading the menu is frustrating, as I speak virtually no German. I have always avoided this country, preferring locales that are more enlightened. Jennifer finds it amusing that I speak Latin, Mandarin and Ancient Persian, but not German. All efforts to explain this are lost on her. A child born too distant from the unpleasantness of the holocaust. After we have finished, I join her in a second cup of coffee.
“Mind if I ask what the trip to the bank was about?”
“You can ask.”
“Sorry, it was a rather curious errand.”
“It was nothing sneaky,” she assures me pulling a ring box out of her backpack and setting it on the table between us. “Have a look.”
The blue box is small and the lid spring loaded. Inside is possibly the largest princess cut diamond I have ever seen mounted on a ring. I’d estimate it to be at least 20 carrots, but it could be more. She watches me gawk at the stone, and then winks over her coffee cup.
“It was my mothers. Father refused to bury it with her.”
“Possibly because it’s worth several million dollars,” I choke out, pushing the box back to her side of the table.
“The money didn’t matter,” she sighs. “Had to be something between them, but he’s not saying. Since Mom will be topside this afternoon I thought I’d return her property.”
“That’s very sweet.”
To this, she moves her head from side to side dismissively.
“So if that’s going in the casket, might I ask what’s coming out?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” she asserts, pushing the check to my side of the table and snatching up the ring.
“For the record,” I pick up the check and pause. “Your father’s reasons for requesting the body not be exhumed were not to keep this item out of reach?”
“Not even a little bit. Pay the check.”
As ordered, I pay the bill and join her in the car. She is silent on the way back, leaving me time to contemplate her story. No matter how hard I try to push the thought into the back of my mind, the idea that Jennifer might be thinking of resurrecting her mother won’t go away. This is probably unrealistic on my part. Rahnee Ben-Aharon has been in the ground for seventy years. You’d need more than a cat to rattle her bones.
…
It’s a sunny day for a change and Jennifer stands with arms crossed over her chest watching the coffin swing from a mesh sling on the way up. To one side of the gaping hole lies the cement slab used as the top of the vault. An older man in overalls wears a pained expression, while several others look bored. Clearly, he’s not been witness to many exhumations, or possibly he holds a religious objection. When the coffin breaks the surface, a rough looking man leaning on a shovel takes the last hit on his cigarette and flicks the butt into the grave. The unhappy man looks horrified, but the offending party seems amused at his protest. It was a rather crass thing to do.
Once above ground, the coffin is placed in the back of a truck and driven to the church. They secure the modern day sarcophagus on a rolling dolly in a back room and we all crowd in. The dolly is tall, putting the lid more than belt high. One of Father Michaels lackeys uses a tiny crank to retract the mechanical latches keeping the lid closed. The casket was inside a cement vault, but the tan finish is obscured in most places by some sort of filth. There is a strong odor, but it’s more like plant mold than any human decay. As previously mentioned she has been buried for a very long time. When the final lockdown is retracted, I expect the lid to pop up just a hair as if the pressure was released, but this doesn’t occur. I am thankful for that.
Jennifer puts a tiny hand on the lid and stops the man from lifting it. She directs Father Michael to round up the troops and give her some space. I’d honestly prefer to go with them. Respecting the family’s privacy, he does. In all respects, I was more comfortable with them here. There is clearly nothing for me to fear, but for whatever reason anxiety washes over me.
We each take an end, then push up the lid releasing a tiny dust cloud. Once past the halfway point, two tiny arms lock in place to keep it in place. We retreat a few steps while the air clears. There is an odor now, but its more dry-rot, than a death smell. The coffin is lined in pink satin. The inside of the lid is covered in stains similar to having soda spilled on it. Leaning my head to one side, it crosses my mind that you can’t spill anything up. Possibly body gasses leaking out?
Jennifer steps up on a short stool left by the workers. She would be too short to reach in otherwise. I remain somewhat disturbed a few steps away. Deliberately far enough so my line of sight on her mother is obscured. After a moment to gaze on the remains, she reaches in and comes back with an enormous handgun. It’s covered in dust and a torn piece of the pink satin is stuck to it, having ripped off as she withdrew it from the coffin. She shakes it, and then blows on the barrel. Dust flies about and she coughs.
The gun itself is impressive. I would place it at .40 caliber, although it may be a bigger gauge. It’s long, but at least three inches of that is a vented noise suppresser on the tip. The grip is huge, almost too big around for Jenn to manage. Sticking out the bottom is a J-hook bulge reminding me of a sea shell. When she lets it fall to her side to reach back in the casket with her free hand, the tip nearly touches the floor.
“Take this,” she demands, lifting the gun in my direction.
At first, I don’t, but she must need both hands as she nearly presses it to my chest when I step forward. At this range, my view of her mother is unobstructed. I wobble, forced to take a sharp step to the right when I nearly fall over. The face of Rahnee Ben-Ahron is not a dusty relic with fragments of hair dangling from the skull as I had imagined. Her cheeks are pale white with greenish dots of mold the size of a dime littering her clothes and forehead. If anything she’s puffy as opposed to shrunken, her skin waxy like fruit in the produce aisle. In fear of losing my breakfast, I stagger backward with my free hand over my mouth. How is it possible she appears as if little time has passed?
I must have shouted, although I can’t recall, as Father Michael enters in time to catch me and drag me from the now claustrophobic room. I stagger to an ornate wooden chair and collapse. It’s clear that he was trying to guide me to a different chair and I assume this one is an antique of some kind. To be honest, he’s lucky I made it this far. I wipe my mouth repeatedly on my suit jacket, leaving a wet spot as I try to get the taste out of my mouth. The specter of death and mold permeate my being. When I gaze up, Father Michael’s eyes are locked on the huge gun dangling from my right hand. Realizing how this appears, I lean over and lay it on the floor to re-assure him I mean no harm.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” I cough, and then pause. “No, I’m not. Why does she look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like she died last month instead of seventy years ago.”
“I take it you haven’t seen many exhumations,” he remarks calmly, the hint of a smile on his lips.
I shake my head, still wiping my mouth on my jacket, but failing to escape the scent.
“If properly embalmed and buried the body can remain recognizable for decades,” he explains. “I was not here when the deceased was buried, but Mr. Faust is a man of great wealth. It’s likely he enlisted the very best care mo
ney could provide.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“It’s not always like that. Body type, strength of embalming fluid, and the seal on the casket can vary. I have seen nothing but dust and bones as well as what you are describing. It’s quite amazing considering this isn’t the first time the caskets been opened.”
“Excuse me,” I struggle, bile bubbling up in the back of my throat. “You have exhumed her before?”
“Yes, Mr. Faust had her brought up to remove a piece of jewelry back in 2041. I know because it was listed in the file when we made notes about today’s exhumation.”
“Her daughter failed to mention that,” I wince, swallowing hard to suppress the urge to be sick. “Are you quite sure?”
“It’s well documented in the file. During the exhumation, one of the workmen fell ill. I was very young at the time, but I recall the story—.”
He goes on talking, but my mind is stuck on the worker that fell ill. A vision of the cat slumping on the floor flashes across my mind. This is followed by the dog on the plane coughing up the black tar substance. Did Arron Faust and his daughter already try to resurrect their loved one?
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, waving a hand weakly. “Was his daughter present in 2041? Was she here when they opened the coffin the previous time?”
“Of course.”
“And when did Mr. Faust request this not happen again?”
“He came to see me last week, but the record already included instructions not to open the coffin. Mr. Faust indicated he just wanted to remind me about it.”
“Did he suggest his daughter might want this done?”
“Well,” he mutters, wringing his hands. “That’s really a privileged conversation. I would hate to speak out of turn.”
“Your reticence to speak on the matter answers the question.”
He shrugs and looks worried. I’m sure he shared far more than intended. I continue to wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket as I gather my wits. So, after receiving the invitation from Primitus, Arron Faust marched down here and reminded Father Michael not to exhume his dead wife. Presumably, after Jenn threatened to come here on the phone. What really happened the first time they brought her up? Am I reading too much into the illness of a worker? Maybe I am connecting dots that don’t exist. This brings the greenish dots of mold on her face to mind and I wobble, dizzy on the small wooden chair.
“Possibly I should get a waste can for you,” Michael suggests, eyeing me, then the well-polished wooden boards under my feet.
“No, I’m fine. Tell me about the sick worker?”
“I wasn’t here obviously, but the news article was in the file. One of the workers passed out after the exhumation. They took him to the hospital, but he never recovered. Best guess was that he inhaled some mold or something. He was coughing up a black discharge before the ambulance got here.”
“Heaven help us,” I mutter, my fears are all but confirmed.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry Father,” I offer quickly.
“It’s not unheard of you know. Egyptian tombs often carry grave threats that any who enter will be cursed. Even though they are simple engravings made thousands of years’ prior, the locals take them very seriously. On occasion one of the archeologists or workmen fall ill and it’s attributed to the curse,” he exhales as if annoyed. “It’s easy enough to explain. All sorts of bad stuff hovers in the air when you disturb old coffins.”
The door opens and Jennifer appears, but notices the look on my face right off. Before I can launch into a line of questioning she would like to avoid, she holds up her finger to quiet me.
“Father, I would like to hold a vigil for my mother in the south annex this Sunday,” Jenn instructs. “Would we be able to have the use of the hall and some privacy?”
“I will check, but if memory serves there is a wedding Sunday,” he explains. “Not really a time for that kind of thing.”
“Are they using the south annex for the ceremony?”
“No, it will be in the main sanctuary, a reception on the west lawn and rectory.”
“Then it’s not a problem,” Jenn verbally bum rushes him. “The parking areas are separate and it’s not difficult to lock the door to the south annex. I’ll arrange some flowers and place a notice online for the event.”
“Jenn, I don’t think—,” he tries to interject.
“Let’s say double the arrangement as we made for this,” she cuts him off and points at the door between us and the moldy corpse of her mother. “Will that be sufficient?”
Father Michael pauses as if he’s giving it serious consideration, but eventually nods. From this exchange it becomes clear how she got him to disregard her father’s instructions. As has always been the case, the church is easily bought. Perhaps not easily, I am not privy to the dollar amount. A further discussion takes place during which she requests the odd key wrench that releases the lid on the coffin be made available to her on Sunday. Furthermore, she demands the lid be sealed as soon as we leave. She orders him, more than asks, that we will be staying in the cottage until the vigil, then, waves him off as if he was a footman offering her mashed potatoes. Once alone, she focuses her forceful will on me.
“Weak stomach?” she taunts, bending over to pick up the gun.
“It was my first exhumation,” I suggest, rising on wobbly legs. “No doubt you were well prepared having opened her coffin previously.”
Her face turns blank as she realizes I have the slightest inkling of the situation. I cannot be sure if it’s anger at Father Michael or general annoyance with me. She does tend to become annoyed at the drop of a hat. After a contemplative pause, a half-smile returns.
“You’re going to be a problem aren’t you?”
“Probably, but answer me one question.”
She nods, crossing her arms and letting the gun dangle from one hand.
“I’d guess when your tried to drain the worker to revive her back in 2041 it didn’t work. That said, why do you think it will be any different now?”
“I have a better donor in mind.”
My own self-obsessed thoughts rush to the idea that I myself am the donor. My body language and appearance must betray this as she begins shaking her head slowly. If not me then who? Possibly, she plans on lining up the wedding party to see how many it will require. I disappear into that place where time loses meaning. Before I judge her for these perceived intensions, I have to ask myself one simple question. How many would I line up to get Beatrix back? Jennifer grows weary and pokes me in the shoulder with the barrel of the gun.
“Nothing like you are imagining,” she whispers. “Although lord knows what that might be.”
I can’t find words and she takes me under the elbow and walks me through several hallways to a side door and into fresh air. It’s clear her knowledge of the church and its many passage ways is considerable. The sun hits my face and warms me. The visual of the corpse’s pasty white complexion flashes in front of me and I visibly wince. There will be no sleep for me tonight.
“Still with me Edward?”
“How?” is my only reply.
“Let me ask you something,” she remarks, removing her backpack and trying to shove the gun inside. “When I post the vigil online and advertise that I will standing in the south annex on Sunday afternoon, who do you think will show up?”
“Friends of your fathers?” I offer. “People who knew your mother?”
“My father has no friends and my mother’s been off the radar for seven decades. She barley lived here for crying out loud.”
I shake my head and hold out my hands, the warmth of the sun washing over them.
“I’d wager that Queen Rhea will send two errand boys to pick me up,” she grins. “I was, after all, invited to the party.”
“You think a full-on-immortal’s life force will be enough to bring her back?”
“Do you?”
“It’s a hypothetical question,” I point out.
“I don’t even believe in the Queen, let alone her minions at present.”
“You’re a stick in the mud.”
“You’re bucking for a padded room,” I shrug, taking deep breaths of fresh air. “Why is it you think she will send two?”
“She used to send one at a time, but they kept going missing. She always sends them in pairs now.”
“Why would they go missing?”
“You recall our conversation about sawing a woman in half?” she prompts me, widening her eyes ominously.
“I’m going to need more information on that.”
“Fair enough, do you think you can eat?” she inquires, tossing the backpack with the gun barrel sticking out over her shoulder. “I could go for something.”
“How do you know she won’t come herself?” I ask, ignoring her unimaginable food query.
“Because she’s entertaining my father as we speak. A good hostess never leaves her guests unattended.”
“How do you know she’s a good hostess?” I argue.
“Call it feminine intuition.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree. “The invitations where tastefully done.”
Chapter Ten
Eating in public is out of the question after what I witnessed earlier. It’s not that I have a weak constitution, but the memory of Rahnee Ben-Ahron’s face haunts me. As previously mentioned, I have watched people boiled in oil, beheaded and hung in public on numerous occasions, but that seems like a long time ago. Jenn orders take-out from a Chinese place nearby. It’s not very good, but then again I have eaten the real thing many times and am no doubt jaded on the subject. I cannot bear to re-visit the day’s events so I ask about the magician’s trick reference she makes so often.
“You have to ask yourself,” she mumbles through an egg roll. “You can’t kill them, only slow them down. How would you contain them?”
“We are talking about the Queen’s minions and not her majesty?”
“Yes, let’s say you shoot them. They go down momentarily, but then recover and continue to chase you.”
