by Rae Renzi
“Ah. Mission accomplished—I hope,” Craig said.
They saw him, the unnatural wretch, when they got off a bus in the patchwork quilt of the Washington corridor. He careened out of a deserted two-story house that listed drunkenly to the side and to which paint was only a faint memory. The man held his head and moaned, then tilted it back and howled like a coyote. A nearby dog howled back. The man looked around as if desperate for something, and his gaze landed on the three of them. He gave them a frozen stare and started toward them.
“Dude, he can see us,” Luke said in a whisper. “What is he? What does he want?”
“He wants life, or death, but not in-between.”
The man broke into a run, his arms held wide. “Help me, help me, help me.”
He aimed for Craig but clipped Luke on the way. He passed right through Luke, but Craig felt it when the man hit his body. The impact pushed him back a few feet, spun him around and knocked him to his knees, smearing part of him—that new and unwanted substance—across the landscape. The strange creature ran on, muttering his chant. “Help me, help me, help me.”
Luke stared at Craig. “Dude, who was that? And why did he… I mean, you stuck to him.”
Bernie knew. “Revenant. The guy was revenant. I’ve heard stories, but never seen one. It’s supposed to happen when someone dead…” Her gaze slid to Craig.
“Does what?” Luke sounded impatient and a little scared.
Craig stood and looked after the retreating revenant. “When someone dead hangs around too long, they start to go solid again, in a bad way. And, yeah, I’m getting close. So, that poor creature? That’s me, if Joy doesn’t move along. Soon.”
“Can’t you just tell her?”
Bernie nudged Luke again. “Dude, it’s not entirely our choice when to move on, you know. There’s got to be balance.” She glanced at Craig. “I’m guessing Joy’s not there yet?”
“It’s complicated. She’s lost so much already—everyone in her family, now her home is about to be foreclosed. I’m afraid that if I tell her I have to leave, she’ll panic.”
Luke nodded slowly, the light finally dawning. “Shit. Then you’ll never be able to leave.” He looked in the direction the revenant had run. “Until it’s too late, like that poor guy.”
“Unless Marybob’s plan works.”
“It’ll work!” said Bernie.
But Craig, who desperately needed it to be true, heard her words as hope, not fact.
Chapter 25
“This will be crazy fun. C’mon, Joy.” Marybob jabbed a finger into my ribs as she turned to pout into the mirror, checking her lipstick for perfection. I edged out of her poking range to finish getting dressed for the dreaded Beaujolais Festival.
“Easy for you to say—you don’t have to chat people up about coffins.”
“Forget the coffins. All you have to do is be there, check on the Silent Auction every once in a while, drink wine, and smile at everyone. And”—she lifted her eyebrows at me significantly—”scout for clients.”
“Clients? The Bereaved? At the Beaujolais Festival?”
Marybob touched up an imaginary flaw on her lips. “You never know. Besides, maybe some of our clients shouldn’t be bereaved. Might want some cheerful folks, too—know what I mean? Not everyone wants to wallow in self-pity.”
“Marybob…” I started to chide her but settled for, “Good point.”
Reflecting her festive mood, Marybob wore a skin-tight, neon-bright peacock-blue number that perfectly set off her curves and cascade of auburn hair. She was like a walking alarm bell and would be a terrific advertisement for the business.
I was a little less conspicuous. I’d chosen a simple, pale-green sheath embellished with a dark-green silk wrap shot through with silver thread. The silver sparkled in the lamplight, which made me smile and twirl around with a flourish.
Marybob grinned at me, then glanced around the room as she absently smoothed her dress. “Hey. Speaking of everyone, are they here?”
“No, they’re not here.” I fastened on my tiny diamond earrings. “The Departed have some sense of propriety.” Or I hoped they did.
“Yeah. I guess there’s not much fun in being a peeping Tom if you don’t have to peep,” she said, completely misunderstanding my statement to come up with an uncannily accurate summary of the situation.
I didn’t bother to reply. Although I wasn’t crazy about Mr. Botts’s marketing ploy, I was pretty darn pleased with my appearance. The silvery green of the dress was becoming and brought out the gold in my hair, which Marybob had styled so it slipped like silk around my shoulders. To my surprise, I realized I was a little excited. I hadn’t been to a social event—other than funerals—since before Craig died.
I’m sure Mr. Botts expected me to take a date to the festival when he purchased two tickets, but I had no date to take. I’d asked Craig if he wanted to go with me. He’d laughed and said no, he could neither eat nor drink, and undoubtedly the music would be too loud to talk.
I’d been disappointed, but he was right. So I invited Marybob, who could most definitely eat and drink and who loved loud music. She’d been happy to oblige. With Marybob along, the evening wouldn’t be boring, maybe not even relaxing, since every available male in the place would circle her like planets around the sun.
I didn’t care. I’d happily sit on the sidelines and enjoy the spectacle. “I should drive, in case you meet someone,” I said to her.
“No way. Your ride looks like a bumper-car survivor. Besides, you might meet someone, too.”
I tossed my wrap over my shoulders and laughed. “Give up, Marybob. I’m simply not available. I have Craig.”
She just snorted. She didn’t understand.
Chapter 26
“There’s a solid door there. I can’t just make it disappear.”
“Correct. It’s solid, you’re not. You’re a ghost. You can go through it.” Craig leaned on the porch rail of Joy’s house, coaching Luke through the basic ghosting skill. Seeing the revenant had freaked Luke out a little. He’d asked Craig for help. Ironic, because Craig couldn’t himself move along, though for a different reason.
“I can feel the frickin’ door.” Luke faced the front door. He placed his palms flat against it and pushed.
“You’re thinking like a mortal.” Craig laid one hand on the door. He hadn’t realized he was anxious until his fingers sank into the wood—although with slight resistance. “If you imagine your hand going through the door, it will. The molecules of the door stay in one place, more or less, but yours can move around them. Try it.”
Luke stared at his hands on the door, closed his eyes, and wiggled his fingers. “Going through the door… through the door.” His eyes popped open. “Okay, okay… it’s giving now. More like foam rubber than oak.” His splayed fingers sank into the wood about a quarter of an inch.
“Good. You’re more attuned to the physical than most of us, but that shouldn’t stop you. Now imagine your hands on the other side of the door and imagine pushing through a bead curtain.”
Luke gritted his teeth and pushed. His hands disappeared. A surprised grin lit his face. “Hey!”
Craig smiled encouragingly. “Now go ahead and walk through the door. It should feel kind of like walking through Jell-O, squidgy and slightly cool.”
Luke nodded. With his hands still held up in front of him, he squeezed his eyes shut and stepped forward.
It worked. The molecules of the door flowed around Luke—or, technically, he flowed around the molecules of the door—until he stopped half way through as if his ears had gotten caught.
“Holy shit!” Luke’s muffled voice reached Craig.
“Keep going, don’t stop now.”
“I, uh… Jeez.”
“Luke?” Craig poked his head through the wall to see what had happened. “Are you stuck?”
He saw the problem. Luke wasn’t stuck. Not in the conventional sense of the word.
He was nose to nos
e with Marybob, who stood directly in front of the door on the other side, her hand on the doorknob.
His eyes drifted down to Luke’s upraised hands, which had automatically curved to fit the rounded contours of Marybob’s prominent anatomy.
Luke’s face was frozen in a horrified grin. He stared at his hands, now locked on Marybob’s breasts.
Marybob shivered, sending little jiggling quakes through the warm globes.
Luke looked down at his pants, as if expecting a commotion.
“Joy, can I borrow a coat or something—there’s a chill in the air,” Marybob yelled over her shoulder.
“Uh, Luke, you might want to back off a little, drop your hands,” Craig suggested.
Marybob turned away from the door, and Luke almost fell into the room. “See? Now you’re in,” Craig said. “Nothing to get excited about.”
Luke glanced briefly at his quiescent pants. “Yeah. You’re right about that. Weird.”
When I walked out of the bedroom to join Marybob, Craig was in the living room, and so was Luke. The two of them were huddled in deep conversation and didn’t notice me at first.
“So, you think it’ll work?” Luke asked Craig.
“Hope so. At least he picked it up and read it.”
“Yeah. Should we—”
“Did what work?” I asked. “And who picked up and read what?”
Both of their heads snapped around. Actually, all three did, as Marybob also reacted to my questions with an unmistakable look of guilt. I’d seen a guilty look on Marybob’s face on a few rare occasions (she was usually too oblivious to have that particular emotion), but never, ever on the face of a Departed. Actually, I hadn’t known it was within their emotional range.
“What are you talking about?” Marybob squeaked.
I narrowed my eyes at her. She’d be the first to crack, unless Luke, still in the throes of clueless adolescence, let something slip. “Craig and Luke are obviously plotting something.”
“Craig and Luke? Oh, um, really? What kind of something?”
I made a mental note to question her further. I was absolutely sure Marybob would never look guilty without cause.
“I don’t know. I’m trying to find out.” I turned back to the guys. “What are you guys talking about?”
Luke still had a hand-in-the-cookie jar look, but Craig grinned unrepentantly at me. “Oh, it’s a little joke we played. On Helmut.”
I didn’t know anyone with that name. And, although the world surely held Departed persons I hadn’t met, the idea that Craig knew someone unfamiliar to me well enough to play a joke on was disconcerting.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come along with us?” I asked him.
He smiled. “I’m sure. You’ll have more fun without me.”
“I doubt that very much. But duty calls.”
Chapter 27
Glittering and bejeweled people flowed toward the festival entrance like confetti swirling down a drain. The weather had cooperated, and it was a fine clear night with just enough of a breeze to flutter the edges of our silky dresses and wraps. We handed over our tickets and joined the merrymakers, most of whom wasted little time before hitting one of the kiosks sprinkled about, where uniformed wait staff unstintingly handed out glasses of the eponymous wine. It was all fun and exciting, and a little like a fairytale.
Happily sipping glasses of Beaujolais Nouveau, we strolled to the center of the room to survey the scene. I hadn’t felt like this in ages, and I reveled in it. The ballroom was enormous, big enough to swallow much of the crowd’s babble. A large proportion of the festival-goers wore black—the men, of course, but many women, too. Had I been organizing the event, I would have specified Attire: Anything But Black on the invitations, or maybe even Sparkly (at least in my current mood). I supposed the prevailing lack of color would help me locate Marybob once we separated, which was only a matter of time. Judging from the warm-up sounds made by the band on stage, the dancing would begin soon. The music seemed to be zydeco—not exactly French, but with a flavor of that culture, and definitely festive. I couldn’t wait.
The tang of wine drifted through the room, joined by the delicious aroma of edible things. Suddenly famished, I sniffed the air like a bloodhound. Marybob followed suit. We might have some differences in fashion taste, but we were of one accord when it came to food.
“Yum,” she said. I had to agree.
The room was ringed by tables dispensing food from well-known restaurants specializing in different cuisines. I spotted Italian, Greek, Indian, Lebanese, and, of course, French food. The tantalizing aroma Marybob followed originated from a row of warming trays filled with a mouthwatering preparation of korma, a rich lamb stew cooked in a spicy cashew-cream sauce. Marybob batted her eyes at the waiter and we walked away with double helpings of the ambrosial mixture. By the time we returned to our little table, the plate of korma had my full attention. I took a bite. It was divine: a perfect balance of the delicate sauce—rich, silky, slightly nutty—and the robust flavors of the spicy meat. All together, it was sensory heaven.
Did the Departed remember this kind of experience? Did they miss it? Of course, not all of them would be attuned to this particular kind of food—to each his own, and so on—but there was no doubt that food, at least for affluent Westerners, had moved from the status of basic necessity into the realm of art. Now that I thought about it, it was the case for all of the fundamental requirements: food, clothing, shelter. Cuisine, couture, architecture. Each was a distinct art, and art, by its very nature, was meant to stimulate the senses. It was a strange realization, that when our circumstances allowed, we indulged ourselves by diving deeper into the physical, not the spiritual.
By the time I was finally able to tear my focus from my plate, Marybob had finished and left. I saw a flash of blue on the dance floor as the band broke into a lively tune. I was amazed and a little envious of how easily Marybob navigated the choppy waters of social interaction with men on the dance floor. She was a little on the blunt side for the comfort of most people. On the other hand, in this venue, she only had to actually speak with each man for a few minutes, and then it was on to the next one—kind of like the recent fad of speed dating, of which she was—
Wait, speed dating! We could add that to our services. I was almost blinded by the inspiration. I suddenly felt more optimistic than I had in days. My fingers started tapping on the tabletop and my hips began to twitch.
Luckily, I caught myself before I launched into a full-scale wriggle. Maybe I’d had too much wine. Or maybe I needed more wine. Yes, that was it. More wine was needed.
After I refilled my glass, I decided I was fortified enough to view the items displayed for the silent auction. They were arrayed in circular tiered displays along one wall, positioned so the spotlights heightened their appeal. Maybe I should bid on something, I thought with rising good cheer as I eyed a lovely pearl necklace. Mr. Botts had not specified whether Tranquility Park was to contribute to the fundraiser beyond purchasing the tickets, but surely a generous donation would be a great public relations move. I mean, the whole purpose of me being here was for public relations… right?
I strolled along the services-offered row. Spa treatment? Yes, that would be nice. Fashion consulting? Wonderful, as long as I wasn’t forced into four-inch heels. I was trying out different arguments in defense of bidding (with Tranquility Park funds) on the pearls or spa when suddenly another interpretation of Mr. Botts’s idea of “perfect public relations” became appallingly clear.
The display was in keeping with the festive occasion—no problem there. The background of dark-green velvet allowed the sprinkles of glittering multicolored confetti to stand out like stars in the sky. The item itself was elegant, an exact miniature replica, beautifully carved in burnished mahogany with gleaming brass fittings. The display signs were also in keeping with the haute-and-happy tone of the event: lovely flowing script on a background of hand-marbled paper.
But the item
itself… !
Judging from the abundance of wine stains, some in large splashes on the carpet, some in splatters on the table cover, I wasn’t the only patron who found a replica of a coffin sitting among the couture pearls and designer handbags a little jarring. Outré didn’t begin to cover it.
On the other hand, the sticker sheet on which the silent bids were attached was almost full. Testimony, I supposed, to either the drunkenness of the patrons or Mr. Botts’s marketing genius. I lifted my glass in salute and drained it.
I found a handy Beaujolais kiosk and was proffering my glass to the waiter yet again when it was plucked out of my hand and placed on the empties tray.
“Excuse me?” I spun around to face my assailant.
“You see these shoes?” Marybob asked, pointing down to her stiletto sandals.
I followed the line of her finger. “Yep. I do. Nice shoes. Shiny.”
“Exactly. Nice for walking, nice for dancing, nice for standing around and looking sexy. They are not nice for carrying a drunk friend to the car. Savvy?”
“I’m not drunk.”
“Not yet. But at the rate you’re slugging back the old Bo-joo-lay, you will be soon enough. How about slowing it down some? Make the evening last a little longer.”
She had a point.
“Let’s get some of that yummy crème brûlée and go listen to the band for a while,” Marybob cajoled. “Maybe dance.”
I didn’t need much cajoling, actually. I loved crème brûlée and enjoyed watching the band. Dancing… now that was a different matter, but I didn’t have to think about it right now. Or maybe I should think about it, in terms of learning about speed dating. Kind of a dry run to understand the mechanics. A little research.
We stood in line to get our dessert and found a table near the dance floor. Marybob fended off a couple of men while she concentrated on eating. To my surprise, one gentleman even asked me to dance. I declined, of course.
