by Boone Brux
Could things get any weirder?
When I rose to the second to the last step, the raven extended its wings, gurgled again, and took off. The sound of air against its blue-black feathers whooshed with each stroke as it lifted to join the circling murder. I jammed my key into the door and ducked inside before the scene turned into something out of a Hitchcock movie.
After slamming the door and locking it, I peeked out the curtains in my front living room. All six birds had settled in the bare branches of a tree across the street and sat silhouetted against the gray afternoon sky. Maybe it was my imagination, but the birds seemed to be staring at my house. I let the curtain fall into place and stepped back. My purse slid from fingers and dropped to the floor. This day was too weird. Maybe if I ignored the ravens, they’d go away. Then again, maybe they were an omen of things to come.
I needed to get my mind off all the reaper madness and refocused on being productive. More than anything, I wanted a shower. Mainly to wash off the hair from my new cut, but also to scrub the feel of Leroy Badder from my hands—actually, my soul. The incident had left me with a greasy sensation that coated my being.
It took a good fifteen minutes of vigorous scouring with my loofa before deciding I’d cleansed as thoroughly as I could without dousing my body in bleach. Once out of the shower, I slicked my hair into a ponytail and put on my favorite sweatshirt. It had been a gift to my husband on his last birthday. I’m sick of being my wife’s arm candy was printed in white letters on the front and Jeff had worn it around the house the day before he’d been killed.
For a long time I slept with the sweatshirt, inhaling the last remnants of his scent. It was the only way I’d been able to get to sleep. Over time his aroma faded and I’d taken to wearing it—every chance I got.
The shower hadn’t completely washed away Leroy’s essence, which made me antsy. Whenever I got like this I cleaned. From the state of my house, I hadn’t been antsy in a very long time.
With the music cranked up, I hauled out my cleaning supplies. Sadly I had to dust those bottles off first. Starting in the bathroom, which was completely disgusting and bordering on a health hazard, I began swamping out the house. How had I not seen what a pigsty we lived in?
The hours passed and layers of dust, stacks of unattended mail, and piles of dirty laundry dwindled. At seven o’clock I stopped and looked around. The place looked great. Then and there I vowed to never let the mess get away from me again. Talk is cheap when you’re high on cleaning fluid fumes.
As I poured a celebratory glass of wine, my doorbell rang. Still reveling in my accomplishment, I didn’t stop to consider who could be at my door. It wasn’t uncommon for Don Burner, my playboy next neighbor, to stop by and see if I needed anything. He was a nice enough guy, but sort of icky in a hey baby kind of way.
I opened the door and froze. Nate stood on the other side. Before I could slam and lock the door, he pushed it open.
“Lisa, we have to talk.”
“No, we don’t! I just got my house clean,” I said, as if that was a viable argument. I yanked on the handle, trying to wrench it from his grasp. “Things are finally getting back to normal. We don’t need to talk.”
“Yes, we do.” He palmed my chest below my neck and pushed me backward. “Now.”
I stumbled, which gave him the break he needed. He stepped inside. I liked to think I was tough, but having a strange man barge into my home snuffed out that misconception. I tamped down my panic. Where was nosy Don when I needed him? Once inside, Nate closed the door.
“You can’t just push your way into my home.” I wasn’t sure how I would follow this argument. Though I hated to admit it, I didn’t possess any stunning skills that could physically eject him from my house. If he was a killer, the best I could do were a few well-placed bitch slaps before going down. “I could have you arrested.”
“Yeah, but you won’t.” His gaze scanned the house. “You alone?”
“No.” I fumbled for a lie. “My neighbor, Don, is fixing my bathroom sink.”
“Would that be the same Don I just saw leaving with two young women.”
Crap.
I grunted. “No, that was his twin brother, Jon.”
Nate nodded. “Right.”
Damn, I wish I was a better liar.
“You’re not welcome here.” He took a step forward and I slapped my hand against the wall, blocking his path with my arm. If he was a grim reaper then maybe he couldn’t enter my house until he was invited—like vampires. “Be gone.”
He smirked. “I’m not a vampire.”
“I know you’re not. There’s no such thing.” I rolled my eyes, trying to give the impression I hadn’t totally been thinking that. “What do you want?”
“Give me ten minutes. Then I’ll leave and never bother you again.”
It sounded too good to be true. “Never ever?”
“I promise.”
He didn’t do any kind of scout’s honor hand gesture, so I didn’t know if I could completely trust him. “Ten minutes.”
In that amount of time he could have me sliced up and vacuum sealed, but what choice did I have. I spun and walked into my kitchen. The very idea that he being the grim reaper was the lesser of two evils made me want to laugh. Not in a ha ha, ironic, isn’t it way. More like a, things keep getting weirder way.
His footsteps followed. I cursed myself. He would probably track dirt all over my sparkling floor. I scooped up my glass of wine and turned to face him. My upbringing forced me to offer him a drink. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
He held up a hand and shook his head. “No, thank you.”
Hmm, very polite—for a killer. I pulled out the chair and sat, indicating he should do the same. I took a sip of wine, wishing it was something stronger. “Okay, speak.”
He lowered himself into the chair and propped his elbows on the table, leveling a stare at me. “You are a grim reaper.”
“So you’ve said.” I took another drink and set down my glass. “Are we done?”
“Hardly.” He eased back and sized me up, his gaze narrowing. “All right then, you explain what happened at the Holiday station this morning.”
I considered giving him Vella’s explanation, but those reasons sounded even more ridiculous than reaping a soul. I decided to changed tactics. “Let me ask you this, why do you think I’m a reaper?”
“We recently lost one of our own and you came on our radar as the next reaper in line.”
“Lost one of your own?” I didn’t like the sound of that. “You mean one of your reapers died?”
He shifted in his chair. “Yes.”
“That’s a bit ironic isn’t it, the Angel of Death dying?”
He shrugged. “We’re mortal, tools for the greater good of mankind.”
I refrained from telling him how much of a tool I thought he was. “Isn’t the grim reaper immortal?”
“You watch too many movies.”
That was true but I didn’t confirm his statement. Our conversation was idiotic and yet a hundred questions demanded to be asked. That’s another problem. I had an unhealthy amount of morbid curiosity. “How did this reaper die?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled, giving me the impression he didn’t want to answer. “He was killed in a car accident.”
“Car accident?” Unease crept through me. Maybe it was the same ability I had to sense the paranormal, but his answer instantly put me on alert. “When?”
He reached up to massage the back of his neck and squinted at me. “A year ago.”
His answer hung in the air. I stared at him, physically feeling the silence pressing down on me. My mind grappled with what he had and hadn’t said. “You’re talking about Jeff…aren’t you?”
Several more seconds passed before he answered. “Yes.”
Whatever humor I’d found in the conversation vanished. “That’s not funny.”
“I know.” He leaned forward and pinned me with a stare. “Jeff was my partner.”
>
“Jeff didn’t have a partner. He was an accounts manager for General Resource Services. He wore a tie and took his lunch to work.” My voice raised an octave. “He worked late and provided for his family. He didn’t reap souls.”
Nate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lisa, but that’s not true. General Resource Services is a front for Grim Reaper Services.”
“No.” I slapped my hand on the table. “I’ve been in there. I’ve seen his office and people filling out applications.” I pointed a finger at him. “And never once have I seen you. You were not his partner.” What Nate was saying was asinine and impossible. My husband had been a good provider, a great father, and an okay husband. He sure as hell hadn’t been a grim reaper. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I want you to leave.”
Nate reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two cards, tossing them onto the table. He flicked his head toward them. “Our identification cards.”
My hand shook when I reached for them. Nate and Jeff’s faces stared back at me from the laminated cards. GRS was printed in bold, black letters to the left. I flipped them over. A bar code and a bold line of numbers filled the backside. “This doesn’t prove anything.” I pitched the cards onto the table and glared at him. “You could’ve had those made anywhere.”
“But I didn’t.” He slid another card across the table. “This is your temporary pass. It will get you onto the fourth floor.”
I didn’t pick it up, only glanced at it and then back at him. “I don’t need that.”
“You do if you’re coming to GRS on Monday.”
“I’m not going to GRS on Monday or any other day.” I sounded convincing, but I’ll admit my curiosity was trumping my disbelief. “I’m not interested in whatever little show and tell you have planned for me.”
Nate picked up his and Jeff’s identification cards and stood, leaving my temporary pass on the table. “Think about it. If you change your mind, be there at nine o’clock.”
I remained seated. “I won’t.”
“We’ll see.” He headed for the door, stopping at the kitchen entrance. Without turning around he said, “I’m sorry about Jeff. He was a good partner.”
I didn’t reply and it seemed he didn’t expect me to. The thud of the front door sounded and his boots clomped down the stairs outside. With my interest piqued, I walked to the kitchen window to watch him climbed into a black Suburban.
“Figures.” What other color vehicle would a reaper drive?
As he pulled out of the driveway, the murder of ravens, still sitting in the tree across the street, rose and followed his rig down the street. Another chill ran through me. I rubbed my arms and turned. The laminated card glared at me from across the room. Unable to squash my curiosity, I crept toward the table and slid back onto my chair, picking up my glass of wine. Nate’s claim that I was a reaper had been bad enough. To find out Jeff had been his partner—well, that was almost too much to believe. Almost.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Jeff being a grim reaper made a lot more sense than me being one. For a while I’d suspected him of having an affair. Late nights, business trips, vague explanations of where he’d been. It had all smacked of another woman. But maybe it hadn’t been an affair at all. Death didn’t happen at convenient times. Maybe he and Nate had split shifts, took turns sending on souls. Maybe Jeff had worked the day shift so he could lead a fairly normal family life.
I picked up the temporary pass, trying to control the guilt and anger building inside me. I’d never confronted him about my suspicions. If I had, perhaps things would’ve been different between us.
Why hadn’t he told me what he really did for a living? I already knew the answer. We’d grown apart after the twins were born. Raising three kids was a full-time job and Jeff never seemed that interested in helping. Don’t get me wrong, our distance wasn’t completely his fault. I’d embraced motherhood and let being his wife sort of fall by the wayside. My mother had always taught me that’s what a good mom did. If I’d been smart I would have taken a hard look at my parent’s non-existent relationship.
I took a deep drink of wine and dropped the card. More questions filled my head and I wouldn’t be able to put this mess behind me until I checked out GRS for myself. I was like that, too damn inquisitive for my own good.
I walked to the living room and flipped on the television. Nothing looked mind-numbing enough to hold my interest and make me forget about the bizarre twist my life had taken. A day ago I’d been a grieving widow. Now I was a woman, who had discovered her husband might have been leading a double life. Usually, in cases like this, the average woman learned her husband had kept a mistress, or fathered a second family in Ohio, or spent their life savings on gambling. But not mine. Oh no, he had to be a frickin’ Angel of Death. And to top it off, he somehow passed it on to me. It just figured.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thankfully I had twelve solid hours to process everything Nate said. I wouldn’t have been able to hide the fact I’d been told I was a grim reaper if I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep. After picking up the kids, we headed to the sports store to buy Bronte her hockey skates, and then back home for a quiet evening of pizza and mindless sitcoms. I’d glossed over being in a hold up, and after a few hundred questions, the kids became absorbed in their assorted electronics and toys. By Monday morning I felt things were almost back to normal—almost.
“Who pooped and didn’t flush it?” I popped my head out of the bathroom and waited for an answer I knew wouldn’t come. “I just cleaned this bathroom. The least you guys can do is flush!”
I trudged back to the toilet and stared at the offending floater. Then I slammed the handle down. It wasn’t logical to feel compassion for a turd, but the sense that my life was about to travel down the same swirling path, created a weird bond. I dropped the lid and shuffled to the sink. My hair still maintained its bouncy style after last night’s shower, so I kept it down. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I swiped on a layer of mascara and exited the bathroom.
“You’re not leaving the house in that sweatshirt are you?” Bronte crossed her arms and gave me a look of teenage disapproval. “What is this, like the hundredth day in a row?”
“No, I’m not wearing this,” I said, even though I’d totally been planning on doing exactly that. “And I washed it yesterday, so it’s clean.”
“I think it should say I’m sick of being my husband’s armpit candy, instead.”
“I’ll have you know your father loved this sweatshirt.”
Bronte harrumphed. “You should have buried him in it and done us all a favor.”
“Oh, real nice.” The tongue of a fifteen year old could be lethal. I’d learned to ignore most of her taciturn ways, chalking it up to hormones and coping mechanisms. That’s what I told myself, anyway. “Are you ready to go?”
“I’m ready.” She shoved a thumb over her shoulder toward the boys’ bedroom. “But you might want to hustle Thing One and Two along. They’re having one of their secret meetings.”
Secret meetings never boded well and were best headed off at the pass. The last time Breck and Bryce sequestered themselves, I found all their stuffed animals wearing blindfolds and lined up against my bay window. That wouldn’t have been so disturbing, but all my steak knives were missing as well—it was during their circus phase.
I knocked on the door, hopefully disrupting yet another nefarious plan. “Let’s go boys.”
The two jumped when I spoke, confirming their guilt. I’d have to stay on my toes for the next few days.
“Coming, Mom.” Bryce picked up his fifty pound backpack and slipped it over his winter jacket. He’s my little nerd and never leaves the house with less than seven things to occupy him in the van.
Empty-handed, Breck headed for the door.
“Coat.” I blocked his path so he couldn’t get past. “Backpack, homework, lunchbox.”
“Oh yeah.” Breck trotted across the room and gathered a
ll his items in one disorganized bundle. “Ready.”
I smiled down at him. My twins were polar opposites. Bryce excelled academically and liked everything organized. Breck was the class clown and a sports enthusiast. Rarely did he remember a coat or to brush his hair. His mischievousness kept me on twenty-four hour alert.
“Get in the van. We don’t want to be late.”
The boys thundered from the room. I followed, collecting my fleece jacket and purse, waiting to make sure the kids were out of the house. As I walked to the kitchen, I slipped on my coat and zipped it so Bronte wouldn’t see I was still wearing the sweatshirt. From between the overdue phone and cable bill, I plucked the temporary pass Nate had given me and shoved it into my coat pocket.
Though it was only a stiff piece of plastic, it weighed like a heavy stone. Maybe it was just my conscience. After Nate left, my guilt about thinking Jeff had been cheating had grown. For the rest of the weekend my mind conjured questions I couldn’t answer. By Sunday night I solidified my decision to go to GRS Monday morning. At the very least, I’d be able to satisfy my curiosity and put this crazy reaper business behind me.
After dropping off Bronte at the high school and the boys at their elementary school for open gym time, I headed down Muldoon toward GRS. It was another gray, brisk day, which seemed appropriate for my mood. At a stoplight I watched the cars speed past, wondering if any of the drivers were grim reapers.
I caught myself. Did I actually believe I was a reaper or that they even existed? I’d always liked the idea of angels escorting me to Heaven after I died. What I witnessed in the bathroom of the Holiday Station was about as far from that scenario as I could imagine.
The light turned green and I continued down Muldoon, which turned into Tudor. I’ve never understood the naming of roads in Anchorage. For no discernible reason or warning street names changed. L Street turned into Minnesota, which then turned into O’Malley farther down. I didn’t know why and never asked. Maybe those who named the streets had so many great choices they wanted to use them all.
I slowed when I approached the parking lot to the GRS building. Omar fought my attempt to turn right. Yeah, I’m blaming my van. I pulled into the left lane and whipped a U-turn. Staying in the right lane, I pulled into Starbucks and shut off the engine. I stared at Jeff’s old work place. Any other time it was simply a reminder of where he’d worked. Now it loomed against the cloudy sky, ominous and forbidding. I squinted, trying to peer through the top floor windows, but couldn’t see anything beyond the silver glass.
