Postcards from a Dead Girl

by Kirk Farber

“I like the good way.”

  He smiles, and clears his workspace of paper scraps. Several new customers make their way in through the glass doors.

  “Pretty unique ways to deliver,” he says.

  Have they considered moose, I wonder.

  “Have a good day,” he says.

  I walk away to make room for the new customers. After a few steps, I really want to share the moose line with Gerald, so I turn back. But he’s already asking a lady if she’s sending anything liquid, perishable, or fragile.

  chapter 9

  At the time of my father’s death, my family lived together under one roof. I was twelve and Natalie was sixteen. Mom was figuring out how to manage life with no husband and two kids, and it was tough because there were always reminders that he was gone. Not like photos or old clothes, but less obvious things that couldn’t be boxed up or thrown away. They were welcome and crushing at the same time. For months we’d get phone calls from telemarketers asking to talk to Dad. And that wasn’t cool at all because whoever answered the phone had to explain.

  And there were the more subtle mementos, like the copper pipes. Dad was a plumber, and he had fitted our house with copper pipes, the best kind to use for plumbing. He taught us the virtues of copper piping: versatility, strength, durability in extreme temperatures, biostatic qualities that don’t allow bacteria to grow. He talked to us like we were adults, coconspirators in his mission to convert every house in town to copper piping. “You get what you pay for,” he used to tell me, and also “Copper is a little more expensive but worth it in the long run,” and “There’s no way we’ll use anything but copper in our house.”

  I was a bit mystified by my dad’s white work truck, how the interior was lined with long sections of shiny pipe, the copper color morphing from brown to orange to red in the sun. He was like an alchemist to me, shaping and shifting metals, casting spells on homes by infusing them with his special brand of invincibility.

  I used to think that the water we drank was better than our neighbors’ because we had copper pipes. It was a great secret I kept from my friends. And for a long time after Dad died, I thought about him every time I turned a faucet.

  Other reminders of Dad were literally sent to our house. Junk mail arrived for him daily, which was unsettling at first because he wasn’t there to tear it up and grumble about it. But we got used to it. It was weirdly comforting to know that Dad was important enough to have been solicited for cable television and lawn care and someone’s vote for office. In a strange way, the junk mail had made us feel he wasn’t far away, like there was a fleeting chance he might still be around. We actually missed it when it stopped coming.

  But telemarketers were never welcome.

  Sometimes I could tell when the phone was for Dad because Mom would mutter something into the receiver and then slam it down. “Who called?” we’d ask. “No one,” my mother would say. Then she’d look at us and repeat it with great conviction. “It was no one.” Just like in the movies, when one character asks another what they’ll do now that something terrible has happened, like a plane’s pilot dying of a heart attack mid-flight. “What do we do now?” a passenger inevitably asks. “Don’t know,” the character answers. Their gaze drifts into the distance and they repeat what they just said, as if repeating it brings a deeper, more serious meaning. “I just don’t know.”

  chapter 10

  I’m doing it again, the car-wash thing. It’s raining hard outside and I’m inside my car, which is inside a small cinder-block building. I’m watching the spot-free rinse spill down my windshield, and several feet away the autumn rain is streaming down the windows of the car wash. I can’t tell if I’m outside or inside. It doesn’t matter. I bought ten car-wash codes and I’m doing laps. There’s no line because of the weather, so it’s all mine.

  A simplicity exists within the touchless system that relaxes me, the way the robot arm works its way around my car in perfect quadrants, spitting pink foam and rinsing with such precision. There is a challenge to getting my car automatically dried in less than the sixty allotted seconds of high-velocity air spewing from the three black throats of the ceiling fans—I’m sure the entire front half of my car is dry when the rainfall spots the hood and it’s time to drive back to the beginning.

  Zero comes with me sometimes. He’s so laid back about everything, but he can barely stop from wetting himself when we do the car wash. If he knew I did laps like this, he would never be able to contain himself. I left him home today.

  I like it in here because nobody can reach me on my cell phone and the four-and-a-half-minute cycle is short enough that there’s nothing else to do but sit. I like it in here because my car is clean and there are no postcards. I like it in here because I know where I am and I know where I am going.

  Outside, a clearing has cut through the clouds, and through it the sunset is visible. Two cars have already lined up at the car wash; my lone reign is officially over. Good thing the codes are good for thirty days. I finish my last drying cycle and drive down the road. I study the sunset in my peripheral vision.

  I’ve been watching sunsets lately, to see what the big deal is. As a rule, I like them. I respect their beauty and punctuality, and I’ll admit to an occasional feeling of awe when the colors are just so. What I mean about the big deal is that so much has been laid on the sunset—heavy-handed metaphors, sentimental music. Everyone’s always walking into them, and that is some very intense light. Maybe that’s where the term “love is blind” comes from, because so many people are walking into sunsets, burning out their corneas.

  Often in the movies, the sunset image is shoved in my face so I’ll be sure to know what to feel. I’ll admit to enjoying a large number of Westerns that have ended this way. Maybe I’ve even welled up a little when the cowboy rides off with the girl—a perfect moment, a just life, a popcorn reminder of how things should be. See: “sunsets, riding into the—” My problem is, I’m watching a sunset right now, in all its washed-out oranges and reds and purples. It’s like the sun is hiding behind a sky-sized blanket of pastel colors, burning bright enough to let me know it’s there, but not enough to be postcard material. And this sunset is in my story, but I’m not sure what to make of it. No music is playing, no girl or horse is hanging around. And while it’s pretty to look at, tonight it’s what I would describe as lethargic.

  chapter 11

  There was a time after Mom died and before Natalie got married that I moved out of our childhood home to live with Zoe. The bedroom was described as cozy in the classifieds, which meant tiny. It was a room with a bed in it. Zoe and I liked it that way; we called it our nest.

  We found most of our nest décor at The Big Bazaar antique shop, a two-level extravaganza of furniture, knickknacks, and oddities. The main floor was stocked with vintage clothing, old musical instruments, and heirloom dressers. Glass cases displayed various collectible magazines, political buttons, playing cards. The basement had retro-hip curiosities: pachinko machines, jukeboxes, shag rugs, and couch-sized phonograph systems.

  During our first visit, Zoe was immediately drawn to an atrocious wood-framed painting that depicted a man rowing a gondola. She held her arms out game-show style to highlight its magnificence. “Perhaps this artifice we shall call ‘The Gondolier’ is in favor of your purchase?” she asked in an Italian accent.

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Isn’t it? Most people in Venice use vaporetti anyway—water buses. Did you know the city actually stretches across more than one hundred small islands?”

  “How do you know these things?” I asked, shaking my head.

  She put her arms down but continued to study the painting as I hovered over the glass cases.

  I remember thinking while we walked around downstairs: Here we are, shopping for our first home item together, and it just might be a rusty old tuba or a chair shaped like a hand. Fantastic.

  We ended up buying a set of heavy red curtains with gold fringe on the bottom. I
was happy because they reminded me of a movie theater. Zoe was happy because they made her feel like we were living someplace more exotic than we actually were.

  In that cramped little bedroom, we filled the gaps between the mattress and the wall with pillows and layers of blankets. The massive curtains also served as a great way to block out the sun. All that padding made the place almost completely silent, like a well-lined tomb.

  I remember once she and I were lying in bed together, her small body spooned in behind mine. My eyes were closed and I could hear her whispering as she lightly ran her fingers up and down my spine. The motion made my skin tighten and chill. I opened my eyes. I wondered if she heard the soft pull of my eyelashes, it was so quiet in there. I stared at the wall before me, and she kept up the hushed tones, the tracing of my skin.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered to the wall.

  She hummed a random melody, as if I’d never asked the question, and continued to draw odd shapes on my back and shoulders and arms. “I’m memorizing you,” she finally said. She grabbed my right hand and studied it intensely, brushing her palm against it, gentle repetitions to match her little song. I felt so happy that she’d want to memorize me. I felt like God had given me a gift.

  But I knew what she was doing. This was another piece of Zoe’s cryptic puzzle that, when finally assembled, would reveal the reality that she and I would not always be together. It had never been explained why this was our destiny, but she said things like this to me on a regular basis, like she was waiting for my departure, that separation was a natural, inevitable stage in our relationship. The funny thing is, I think I finally understand she was right. People never stay together forever. If they don’t break up or divorce, one will die first, leaving the other in pain. And Zoe knew.

  “What would you do if I were dead?” she’d sometimes ask, usually while standing by the stove if I was cooking, or next to the sink if I was shaving.

  “I’d be miserable.”

  She’d look around the room and rock on the balls of her feet, building up to what promised to be a hugely philosophical moment. “I’m cute,” she’d say.

  “Beautiful,” I’d remind her.

  Then she’d stare at me like she thought I was lying. “You’d miss me. A lot.”

  “I know,” was my conclusion.

  It was times like this, in bed with the memorization game, that Zoe made it clear the puzzle was quickly coming together. Either I was to make a grave mistake or something terrible was to happen to her. Those were our unspoken options. Maybe that’s just how I see it now, given everything that’s happened.

  chapter 12

  The postcard I receive next has a photo of a sunset. It’s the kind of image travel magazines use on their covers to lure readers into discovering the location of the miracle light. I catch myself looking over this one a few seconds longer than I did the other postcards. Something about this image, the pure energy of the rays cutting through primeval clouds, the authoritative tone of all things majestic. It’s Biblical. Prophetic.

  The postcard came from New Jersey.

  The back has a coupon for a free oil change from the Sunny Smiles Garage in Hoboken, and I feel like I’ve been there before. Maybe when we visited Manhattan? I figure I must’ve been put on a mailing list, but then I see my name’s been written by Zoe’s hand.

  So I do the only thing I can do. First, I make sure Zero has food and water. Then, I get in my car and drive. I figure if I’m in the car driving, I can always argue myself out of going all the way to New Jersey. I’ll have twelve hours to make my case. Even if I lose the debate, all that time won’t be lost on the road.

  After four hours of arguing with myself, I realize I’m two states away. I succumb to the rest of the drive. About eight hours into my journey, I feel guilty for having left Zero alone. He’ll be okay; there’s a two-way dog door to the backyard, and I’ll be home soon. But something else is bothering me. It’s the hum of the highway, the false feeling of security everyone has as they smoke cigarettes, eat cheeseburgers, drive with one finger. The way they don’t pay attention to what’s in their peripheral vision, and how they listen to talk radio and laugh at invisible voices as the divider lines slip by them one by one—dash, dash, dash.

  chapter 13

  When I finally find Sunny Smiles, I’m not smiling and it’s not sunny. A thunderstorm has just passed through, leaving the pavement steamy. The air is muggy and thick, and the pregnant black clouds have been reduced to light gray clouds. Wet tires hiss past me as my car crawls up the street.

  The building itself looks more like a mall or an amusement park than an automotive garage. The quick oil change is connected to a car wash that is connected to a Laundromat with an arcade inside and coin-operated circus animals to ride outside. Connected to that is a bar. I guess something for the whole family was the thinking behind this little oasis. The outer wall is painted with a mural of a smiling cartoon sun floating in a bright blue sky with happy clouds and twittering birds. It all seems out of place. I’m already disappointed.

  The postcard’s image is nowhere to be seen. Clearly the picture on the garage wall is not the same as the photograph, and from the looks of the weather, there won’t be any miraculous sunscapes manifesting anywhere nearby. Which also makes me think that there will be no Zoe nearby. I have driven nine hundred miles to get an oil change.

  I park, get out of my car, and walk over to the Laundromat. I insert a ten spot in the change machine, fill my pockets with quarters, and get a Cherry Coke from the vending machine. A miniature dolphin ride waits empty only a few feet away, and I figure why not, there’s no harm in riding a little dolphin every once in a while. As I rock back and forth, I study the car wash adjacent to the garage. It’s a stop-and-spray manual deal, just not the same as the old touchless, so no laps today.

  A voice from above tells me I’m a clown. I look up. “Excuse me?”

  “What are you, a clown? That ride’s for kids. You’re going to wreck it.”

  An irate mother has descended from the land of the laundry. She isn’t amused by my occupation of her son’s coveted dolphin. I stand up and offer the ride to the boy. They both study me cautiously, like I might be setting a trap.

  The loud woman holds her arm in front of her son. I step back, armed with my diabolical Cherry Coke. I decide it’s time to go talk to the mechanic.

  Corey is the garage clerk, a small man with close-set eyes and messy black hair, and he offers to extend the expiration date on my oil-change coupon after I tell him my story and how far I’ve driven. He seems to feel genuinely bad that the coupon is a year overdue. That, and he’s very concerned about being honest with me.

  “To be honest with you,” he keeps saying.

  “So you don’t remember ever seeing me here with a girl?” I ask.

  “To be honest with you, I haven’t been here that long. I wouldn’t remember you or your girlfriend.”

  I wonder what he’s being when he doesn’t preface his sentences with this. I think about pulling out the photo of Zoe I’ve brought along, but decide to keep it in my pocket after his last answer.

  “Couldn’t you look me up on your computer?”

  “They’re down. We’re doing all paper receipts today.” Corey holds up a notebook with greasy fingerprints on it.

  I try to engage Corey in shop talk to get away from my embarrassing situation. I ask him about starters and ignition systems.

  “To be honest with you,” he says, “Tom over there is the mechanic, I just run the register and manage phones. Honestly though, I’ve been learning a lot by watching.”

  Now Corey is embarrassed for being a garage clerk instead of a mechanic, while I stand there feeling like an idiot for driving to Hoboken over a postcard. Corey chews on his thumbnail while I feign interest in Tom’s handiwork.

  “Tell you what,” I say, “if you or your mechanic remember anything or find anything on your computer, give me a call.” I write my cell phone number
on a Sunny Smiles business card and hand it to him.

  He seems grateful, like he wants to give something back. “Hey, you like calendars?” he asks, and bends down behind the counter. He pops up with a Sunny Smiles Garage calendar emblazoned with the portentous light I saw on the postcard. “You can have one. Give you something to look at in the meantime. The oil change should only be about twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks.” I walk outside and turn the calendar in my hands. On the back are twelve squares: a month for every smiling girl. They are all bikinis and bright eyes, brilliant white teeth and slippery skin, every photo full of glossy luminescence.

  A hydraulic press exhales and groans behind me, a car rising on the lift. I turn to see if it’s mine, but it looks like I’m next. I catch a whiff of oil and metal, and then some unexpected smells: peanuts, chips, cigarettes. It’s the bar attached to the Laundromat attached to the garage. I’ve got time to burn, so I continue my investigation.

  The front door is mostly glass, with the name MICKEY’s etched across it. A shamrock punctuates the design, but the interior doesn’t resemble any Irish pubs I’ve seen. There are no fireplaces, no massive wooden beams. It’s merely a big square room full of tables and chairs, booths against the walls. The bar itself is pushed off to one side. An Irish flag hangs behind it, a weak attempt at homeland pride. The bartender is a tiny man, his shoulders barely clearing the bar’s counter. He washes dishes with great intent, hardly noticing I’ve arrived. The three patrons on the other side of the room don’t seem to notice either.

  I walk up to the bar and fish out the photo of Zoe from my pocket. It’s a Polaroid picture, the self-portrait of me and Zoe taken on one of those days we were bored and decided to screw around and make something zany. She knew how to scratch at the film as it developed, and she created some wild squiggly designs around our faces—strange glyphs that punctuated our mood of the day. Not the most normal image, but still the clearest photo I have of her face.