Talking to the Dead

by Bonnie Grove

  I pushed several more buttons, none of which brought the video back. Then I hit the green arrow button and not only did the picture come back, but it came to life.

  When Kevin’s voice leapt from the camera, I nearly dropped it. “Room 1842. Check it out. Ugliest hotel room I’ve ever seen.” The image panned around the room, zooming in on the mini fridge, the coffeemaker, the closet. The bed came into view, rumpled covers, pillows tossed here and there. I heard Kevin’s voice. “Ah, now the bed. Here, in glorious contrast to this ugly room, we find the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” A long, bare leg came into view. I heard giggles. The camera followed the bare leg up until it disappeared under the covers. The camera continued its slow ascent, up toward the head. A hand with long, painted fingernails; an arm; a bare shoulder. A voice, “Hey, lover.” A face.

  My vision blurred with tears so that I could barely make out Donna’s face as she smiled into the camera.

  28

  “I don’t understand, Kevin.” I’m standing in the foyer of our house, in front of the door. I’m a human barrier, a blockade of flesh and bones.

  Kevin crosses his arms across his chest, placing his expensive new suit in danger of developing elbow creases. It’s dark blue, nearly black. His tie matches precisely. He looks like a G-man in a B movie. More a costume than a suit. But I don’t say this. I also don’t tell him how I barely recognize him, how the long hours he keeps is turning him into a stranger. How the way he shakes his head at me makes me want to cry. He pulls a face. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Explain it to me again.”

  His eyes roll up and to the left. “I don’t have time for this. I have a dinner meeting.”

  I throw my hands up. “Your client can wait for a few minutes.”

  His eyes narrow. “You have no idea what my client can or cannot do. You haven’t the first clue about it, Kate.”

  I swallow hard, my nerves fraying. He’s angry, and so am I, but I see the clouds gathering around his head, I see his eyes turn to granite, and I back off a bit. “You’re right, I don’t know. I need you to explain it to me; I need your help to understand.” I hold my hands out, palms facing him, to soften my words, to cool his anger. “Five thousand dollars is a lot of money.”

  He snorts. “That’s your problem, Kate. You honestly think five thousand dollars is a lot of money. It’s not. It’s chump change in the circles I’m breaking into.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s a night out to these guys.”

  I close my eyes and pull in a long breath, steadying my voice. “But you aren’t one of those guys, Kevin. You’re you. This is us, remember? You and me. We don’t spend five thousand dollars on a suit.” Despite myself I feel my bottom lip tremble. “You didn’t even talk to me first.”

  He puts a finger under my nose. “Oh great, here come the crocodile tears. Do you honestly expect me to stand here with a client waiting while you have your little boo-hoo? This is crap, Kate.” He grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me away from the door. His fingers sink into my flesh.

  I grab the lapels of his five-thousand-dollar suit.

  He takes hold of each of my wrists and twists opposite ways. I cry out in pain and release his jacket. The material is crushed and wrinkled. He doesn’t let go of my wrists.

  “You will stop this now. Do you understand me, Kate?” His low voice is like gravel in my ears. He gives me a fast shake. “End this now, or I’ll end it for you.”

  I stare up at him. “What do you mean, end it for me?”

  He lets go suddenly and I nearly fall backward. He steps toward the door, one hand on the knob. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

  Some unknown horror floods my body. “Do what?” It’s a whisper.

  He shakes his head. “This is the wrong time to talk about this.”

  I reach out for him, and he takes a step back. I look down at my wrists, red and bruised from his hands, and pull my arms back. “Kevin, no.”

  His body goes loose, relaxed, and I see it in his face, the decision he’s made. I push past him and open the front door. “Just go to your meeting.” I flap my hand, shooing him out the door, but he doesn’t move. He opens his mouth. I push the door wide open and pull on his arm. “Go, just go.”

  “Kate, I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you—”

  I clamp my hands over my ears. “You’re late. Go.”

  He gives me a long, searching look, then walks out the door into the darkening evening.

  My hands shook as I held the camera. A part of me wanted to throw it down, crush it beneath my heel. But I held on to it with strong, almost protective hands, staring at the images as I hit Play over and over again.

  Every time I heard Kevin’s voice it was a fresh beating, a new assault. But I couldn’t stop. Each time the image moved to the bed I held my breath; maybe this time she wouldn’t be there. Maybe it would be me instead. Maybe it would be empty. But each time it was her saying, “Hey, lover.” It was her smiling up at the camera. Her reaching out for Kevin, imploring him to put the camera down and join her in the bed.

  When the clip ended, my finger would hit Play again. Some suicidal part of me was searching out every morsel of misery, bathing me in pain.

  I watched the scene until I could see each detail in my mind. I closed my eyes and replayed the scene. Each shade of beige. Each surface. Each sound. Each word. I felt sick.

  I opened my eyes and felt a fresh jolt of surprise. While absorbed in the video, I’d forgotten where I was. I was in the bank, and Donna was on the other side of the door. My heart skipped a beat, and then started pounding hard, as if I were running a marathon. I stared at the door as if Donna might fling it open at any moment. Nausea swelled in my stomach. My body broke out in sweat. I grabbed the wastebasket and vomited into it.

  I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. “I’ve got to get out of here.” I looked at the phone. What was the number I was supposed to dial? No. If I dialed the number—whatever it was—Donna would answer. She would come into the room. She would look at me, speak to me. I glanced at the wastebasket. The air was becoming increasingly unbreathable.

  I sat on the chair and set the camera down on the desk. I closed my eyes. Immediately images from the camera sprang up before me. Her leg. Her arm. Her face. I bent over in my chair until my face rested on my legs and sobbed.

  After a long while I sat up. A thought came: Just leave.

  I grabbed the camera and my purse and headed for the door. I glanced back at the room. The safe-deposit box lay open, exposed to the world. Several pieces of paper were scattered on the desk beside it. A terrible odor rose from the wastebasket. I pressed my ear against the door and listened as I turned the knob in slow motion. I heard nothing. I pulled the door open a crack and with one eye peered into the corridor. Empty. Good.

  I inched the door open a bit farther and stuck my head out. No one. Good. I slid out of the room and stood in the hall for a moment, getting my bearings. I started at the end of the hallway. Do I turn left or right? I couldn’t remember.

  The hammering of my heart moved my feet down the hall. I turned right and kept my head down, walking fast toward the main lobby. I glanced up and saw Bunhead’s desk ahead of me. I put my head down and sped past her. True to form she never looked up.

  I approached the bank’s main door and pushed. Nothing happened. The door wouldn’t open. Panic filled my lungs, choking me. They had locked me in! I stared at the door in disbelief. Outside a man approached the bank. He arrived at the door and pushed. It swung open silently, admitting him with ease. The door closed behind him while I stood dumbly staring at the sign affixed to the glass. Pull. I pulled the door open, stepped out onto the sidewalk, and ran toward my car.

  I lurched at the car, throwing my purse and the digital camera into the front seat. I jumped in and went to turn the key. Where was the k
ey? I wasn’t holding the key. I grabbed my purse and dumped its contents onto the passenger seat. No keys.

  I could barely see through my tears. I groped the contents of my purse. Not there. I hollered out a scream of frustration. I just wanted to get as far away from the bank as possible as fast as I could.

  Where were the keys? Did I leave them in the bank beside the safe-deposit box? The thought of having to go back into the bank made my stomach lurch. I thought I might vomit again. I’d walk home if I had to. I wasn’t going back in there. Think, Kate, think. Where are your stupid keys?

  I gripped the useless steering wheel. Wait. A distant thought was dawning. “How’d I open the car if I left the keys in the bank?”

  I pushed open the door and stepped out, banging my head on the door’s frame. With a hand on my quickly swelling forehead, I looked inside the car. The keys were lying on the driver’s seat. I’d been sitting on them.

  “Idiot,” I told myself. And here I’d thought I’d been getting better.

  29

  I stood on the brakes, screeching to a stop in front of my house. I grabbed the camera and went to the front door, opened it.

  “Kevin!” My voice bounced back in the hollowness of the house. It mocked me. I turned my face to the ceiling and screamed. “Come out, Kevin! No hiding now. Now it’s my turn to shout.” I ran into the kitchen and tossed the camera onto the table. “It’s my turn to attack you. Come out, liar.”

  My body shook with rage as the images on the camera flashed in my mind. The images I had carefully committed to memory.

  “What have you got to say to me now, Kevin?” I swore into the silence.

  Every step since Kevin’s death had to be retraced. I had grieved the wrong things, weighted the wrong losses, held the wrong regrets. Nursed the wrong memories.

  I spun on my heels and made a fast dash for the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, I called out, “I’m coming for you, Kevin.”

  At the top of the stairs I flung myself against the bedroom door. The frame cracked as the hinges pulled away from the wood. The door flew open so hard the doorknob punctured a hole in the wall.

  I advanced to the closet and wrenched the doors open, exposing the soft cotton clothes inside. Kevin had claimed the largest portion of the closet, his silk shirts and ties, his expensive suit jackets needed “room to breathe” so they wouldn’t wrinkle. I grabbed at one of Kevin’s suits. The jacket pulled off easily, but the pants hung from the wooden rod. I snatched them up and threw them onto the floor behind me. I seized four silk shirts and the silk fabric ripped. I threw them on top of the jacket on the floor, grinned at the shirtless sleeve I held in my hand. I tossed it aside.

  Once again I reached into the closet and grabbed a chunk of dress shirts and pulled. Bits of broken hangers flew out at my face, but I brushed them aside and threw the clothes over my head and onto the floor behind me.

  I yanked on his tie rack and the nail of my index finger bent backward. I screamed in pain, but attacked the closet yet again. Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I reached in, feeling for anything that was his. I used the palms of my hands to push them off my face. “No more tears,” I said, then louder, “No more crying over you, Kevin! I won’t get it wrong this time.” I pulled down hard on the tie rack and the hanging end snapped off. I turned and hurled the rack across the room. It landed on the dresser, smashing into a framed photo of Kevin taken on our honeymoon, before sliding to the floor.

  Panting, I turned and attacked the closet again. I reached deep inside; I took hold of another handful of clothes and pulled them down. A piece of plastic hanger broke loose and caught me on the cheek. I shrieked in outrage and pain. I gazed at the blood on my hand and howled like a mad dog.

  I moved to the window and pushed it open. I used the heel of my hand to try to shove the screen out of its frame. It wouldn’t budge. I stepped back and in one swift motion flung my leg up and kicked the screen out of its frame. It flapped to the ground below, landing with a soft metal sound.

  I stalked over to the middle of the room and grabbed up an armful of clothes. Back at the window I leaned out and shouted, “Talk to me now, Kevin!”

  I threw the clothes out the window until they littered the front yard with fabric and broken hangers. Sweating, I snatched up another pile, then another, until nothing remained on the floor.

  I swung around, scanning the room, and spied the broken picture frame and neckties near Kevin’s chest of drawers. Something under the bed caught my toe. I dropped to my knees and pulled out the leather-bound book on aviation I had given Kevin for our third wedding anniversary. It was thick with dust. Inside I had inscribed Just you and me, babe, forever. I pitched it out the window like a Frisbee.

  Back at the bed I gathered up bedspread, sheets, and pillows. The faint scent of Kevin stuck to his pillow. I hurled it out the window and sent the rest of the bedding out behind it. I went back for the broken picture frame and scooped it up, cutting my hand on the broken glass. I flung it out the window, listening to the tinkle of glass far below.

  I moved to his dresser and pulled open a drawer. His neatly folded clothes mocked me. I wrenched the drawer out from the dresser and dumped his tidy socks out the window. Then I heaved the drawer out the window after them. It hit the driveway with a satisfying crash. I grabbed the next drawer and heaved it out the window too. Two more drawers followed, each crashing on top of the one before it.

  I stood, panting hard, and looking at the hollowed-out dresser. I dragged it to the window as if it weighed nothing. I tipped it, then lifted the bottom, then hurled it out the window. The crack it made when it hit the ground made me smile.

  I stood at the open window and listened for his voice. Nothing.

  I crawled to the closet and loaded my arms with Kevin’s shoes. They too were pitched onto the front lawn. At the back of the closet, lying like a puddle, was Kevin’s high school basketball jersey. Number three. He’d worn this jersey through four years and three championship games. He had called it his lucky shirt. I held it to my face, breathing in Kevin’s faint scent.

  The worn material was soft and cool against my cheek. The deep forest green had long faded to a soft jade. He was wearing this jersey the first time I saw him. He had been shooting baskets in the gym when a friend and I peeked in to watch. We giggled and nudged each other every time he went for a jump shot. He was glorious. It was more than a jersey, more than a high school team uniform. He cherished this faded green tank. For him it represented all he was in his youth, and all he hoped to accomplish as an adult.

  I carried it downstairs and into the kitchen. Holding the jersey tightly, I rummaged in a drawer until I found what I was looking for. I went back upstairs and sat in the middle of the bed I hadn’t touched in months. A sweet breeze blew into the room. I could hear birds—robins, I thought—singing. A great calm filled my mind. The fury had seeped from my body. I calmly held up Kevin’s prized jersey and used the kitchen scissors to cut it into dozens of small pieces.

  When I was done, I scattered them around the stripped mattress and floor, cotton petals strewn over the funeral pyre of our bed. I stretched out on the bed. I listened to the silence for a few moments, and fell into a deep sleep.

  I awoke to the sound of pounding. I blinked at the ceiling, waiting for it to stop. It did. I heard, instead, the sound of the front door opening. “Kate?” Blair’s voice. “Are you here? Are you all right?”

  I sat up and raked my hand through my hair. Bits of green cloth fluttered down. Why wouldn’t I be all right? “I’m up here.”

  Blair’s footsteps echoed up the stairs and then he appeared at the bedroom door. His face went from concern to horror as he looked around the room. Finally his wide-eyed gaze rested on me. “What happened? Are you hurt?” He walked to the bed and bent down to look at me. His hand brushed my cheek and I flinched as it
made contact with a cut on my face. “Who did this to you?”

  I gave a short snort. “Kevin.”

  Blair gripped my shoulders. “Seriously, Kate. Tell me what happened.”

  I pushed his hands away and got off the bed. Bits of green fabric littered the mattress and carpet. The scissors were lying on the floor. I looked at Blair. “I’m not joking. And why are you here?” Without waiting for his response, I walked out of the room and headed downstairs.

  Blair followed. “I was driving by and saw your front yard. What happened out there?”

  I opened the front door and walked out across the lawn, wading through ripped clothing and broken hangers. A large shard of wood had been ripped away from one of the dresser drawers and was plunged into the ground like a toy Excalibur.

  I moved to the sidewalk. Debris covered the lawn as if the house had sneezed it out.

  Blair stood beside me, gazing at the aftermath of my rage. “Please talk to me, Kate.”

  I turned and took his face in my hands, bringing it close to mine. His eyes questioned me, but I pressed my lips against his in a long, slow kiss. I took my time, feeling the warmth of his lips on mine. I slid my arms around his neck and he curved his arms around my waist. For a moment nothing else existed. Then I felt his hands firm on my arms as he pushed me away.