“Yes, dear?” he answered, struggling to make his throat work smoothly. He touched his Adam’s apple with one gloved hand.
“I’ve got a drinky-poo for you.”
“I’ll be right down.”
He stopped at the bathroom on the way. He stood in front of the mirror and lifted his eyelids. No tache noir yet. Black eyes would be a dead giveaway.
He went into the living room. The drink rested on the coffee table. He gingerly settled into his easy chair. Demora had loaded his pipe so that it would be at his elbow, awaiting the touch of fire.
She came out of the kitchen, her gown disguising her huggable roundness. Her hair was up in a severe bun. It wasn’t her best look. The bareness of her neck made her chins more noticeable. But she was still beautiful. She smiled.
“Hard day at work, dear?” Her voice was sparrow-light and cheerful.
“Not really.”
Because he hadn’t done anything. He went down to the theater and made sure he was visible, so that everyone would know that reliable, old Randall was on the job. Then he sat in his office with the lights off, listening to the banging as the set designers prepped for “My Fair Lady.” It was another world out there between the curtains, a world that he could no longer have a part in. He would have cried if he could’ve summoned the necessary fluids.
“Dear?”
Demora’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
“Yes, my sweet?” he asked, with a steady delivery. He had been a decent actor, once. He saw no reason why he couldn’t pull off his greatest performance. The deceased Randall, starring as the living Randall—for a limited run only.
“Are you okay? You seem a little...I don’t know.”
Her eyes darkened with worry. It made her eyebrows vee on her forehead.
“I’m fine, dear. Right as rain, dandy as a doodle.”
“Hmm. If you say so.”
“I say so.”
He lifted his drink. It was difficult. His strength was ebbing.
He sipped, then gulped. No taste. He wished he could feel the burn, the tingle, the glow, the cold, anything.
“Is it just right, my little honey-pot smooch?” Demora asked. She held one hand in front of her ample bosom, eager to please.
“Perfect,” he said, forcing a smile. His lips were too dry. They felt as if they were about to split. He let the smile fade.
Randall fumbled for the pipe. All his little routines were now Herculean tasks. He stuck the pipe stem in his mouth and felt it against his wooden tongue. Demora pulled a lighter out of nowhere and thumbed a bright flame.
Heat. He sucked, lost for feeling, lost for pain, lost for comfort. He swallowed and didn’t cough. Smoking was difficult now that he no longer breathed.
Demora hovered, flitting around his elbows like a rotund hummingbird, her speed belying her size. She unrolled the newspaper and draped it across his lap, then knelt to remove his shoes.
“No, darling,” he said. She looked up, disappointed.
He was afraid that the stench would be overpowering.
“I may go for a walk later,” he said.
She nodded and grinned.
It was only when she was handing him the television remote that she mentioned the gloves.
“Just a little change, my sweet,” he said. He flexed his fingers. They felt like sausages encased in plastic sheaths.
The evening passed in the world outside. The sun made its weary trek down the sky. The crickets began their nightly complaining from the alleys. Streetlights hummed. Demora hummed, too. She was a mezzo-soprano.
They readied for bed. This was the worst time of all, the most awkward moment. Randall snuck to the bathroom and put on his pajamas, careful not to look at his flesh.
The soft parts would go first. The ones without bones. But which ones? His earlobes? The tip of his nose? His lips? Or...
He believed he could put her off for another night. But two nights in a row? She would be suspicious.
Still, he couldn’t risk betraying himself in a fit of passion. That would be too sudden. He wanted the moment to be right. He wanted to break the news gently.
He rolled antiperspirant under his arms. Hairs came loose and clung to the deodorant ball. He splashed cologne on his neck. He was afraid to comb his hair.
“Randall?”
She was under the covers.
“Coming, dear,” he answered.
He turned out the lights, not looking at the bed. He still had the gloves on. Silly boy.
“Silly boy,” she said, feeling the gloves on her shoulders as he hugged her.
She was wearing lingerie, silk lace and frills. He rubbed the fabric against his cheek lightly, so that his skin wouldn’t slough. He missed having a sense of touch.
“Playing games tonight?” she whispered, a giggle in her nose.
“Not tonight, dear, I’ve...”
You’ve what? Got a headache? Used that last night. Suffering the heartbreak of psoriasis? This morning’s excuse.
“Honey?” she said, her voice husky with desire and disappointment.
“Tomorrow night, I promise,” he said, in his most gentlemanly tone. It was the voice he used doing Laurence Olivier doing Hamlet.
He brushed his parched lips carefully against Demora’s cheek. He nudged his nose against her ear. He tried to give her butterfly kisses, but his eyelids were too stiff.
Randall laid back on the pillows and pretended to sleep. He hoped she wouldn’t put her head on his chest and notice the lack of a heartbeat. But soon she was snoring lightly, managing to turn even that into a song. His eyes remained open the entire night.
His blood had settled overnight as he lay in un-sleep. The liver mortis mottled his skin. Getting out of bed was a chore. He just wanted to rest, rest, in peace.
But Demora needed him. This was no time to be selfish.
He dared not take the bus to work. He was drawing too many flies. His hands were too slow to brush them away. So he walked to work, his feet like mud in his shoes.
He looked at the sky, wide and blue, over the tops of the buildings. He had never before noticed the breadth and depth of reality. The gray-chested pigeons hopping on the ledges, barren flagpoles erect in the air, awnings drooping like damp parachutes, shrubs rising from concrete boxes with cigarette butts for mulch. So much detail—every bit of mica in the sidewalk glistening in the sun, every flake of drab paint on the windowsills curling, all glass standing clear and thick and brittle and bold.
And the people—fat men with umbrellas, stalactite ladies with faux pearls, boys with big shoes, weasel women and pony girls. So many people, flush with health, cheeks blushed with blood, all hearts racing, pounding, pouring, pumping life. So alive. Such a treasure it was to breathe. The living knew not their wealth.
Randall pulled his derby lower over his face. He’d had to lighten the skin under his eyes with makeup. He had a kit at home. He’d done his own makeup for years, painting himself a hundred times to become someone else. He never thought he’d have to recreate his own face.
He entered the theater, his coat collar high around his ears even though the mercury was in the eighties. He had doused his clothes with a half-bottle of aftershave, but he didn’t want to chance any personal encounters.
He waved at the stage director and went into his office. He took off his coat and sat in the chair. He tugged at the fingertip of his glove and heard a wet, tearing sound. Probably the fingermeat was separating at his wedding band. He left the glove alone.
He stank. He knew that. Demora had not said a word. She would never criticize.
Randall sat. After a long eternity of hours that were all the same, the clock on the wall moved around. Time to go home, to Demora. He tried to rise.
He couldn’t move. Rigor mortis had finally set in.
He had been wondering how long he could continue, how long he could pretend, how long he could fool himself and his Makers. Too many decades of smoking and lack of exercise.
He winced at the memory. He had felt something lifting from his body, a powder, a fairy-dust, a star whisper. And he had resisted the pull.
Because of her.
And because of her, he could not sit locked in his chair, his muscles frozen around his skeleton, his face a tense mask, his eyes dry and bulging. He would not be found like this.
He summoned his willpower. He strained against invisible bonds. Finally, his jaw yanked downward.
He flexed his fingers, hearing his knuckles crack. He stood, his bones snapping like old sticks. He walked, his legs a daisy chain of calcite.
On the way home, he avoided looking into human eyes. He no longer envied their moistness. He no longer ached for tears. He had lost the desire to breathe, to live, to be normal. Living was just a state of mind.
Demora looked affectionately at him as she set the table. She tilted her head.
“Are you gaining weight, sweetheart?” she asked.
“No, dear.”
He wasn’t gaining. He was bloating.
Randall wore his hat while eating dinner. He wondered what was happening to the food now that his organs no longer digested. His gloves were stained with the Cherries Jubilee. Demora’s lips were red, probably his as well.
He felt an urge to kiss her.
“Tonight, my love?” she asked, looking deeply into his eyes.
“Yes,” he answered. He lifted a toast in her direction. The Bordeaux pooled in his dead stomach.
Did she suspect? He was pallid. He stank of loam and rancid meat. His skin was gelatin. His cheeks sagged from his skull. Flies orbited his head.
But he didn’t think she minded. She loved him as he was, however he was. He saw it in her eyes.
Those fools had it wrong. All the great tragedies were based on a lie. Romeo and Juliet, ha.
Anybody could die for love. That was easy. The true test was living for love, afterwards.
Later, in bed, under sheets and midnight’s rainbow, as candles flickered.
“I love you,” Demora whispered.
“I love you,” Randall said, and he had never meant it so completely.
“Forever and for true?”
“Forever and a day.”
He kissed her.
His mouth found new vigor.
His eyes moistened, as if brimming for weeping.
He felt stirrings below his belly.
His tongue writhed and squirmed in passion.
No, not his tongue.
Maggots.
Demora returned his kiss. Their limbs entwined, their flesh joined in a squishy, beautiful swapping of the juices of love. They drove their bodies toward satisfaction, but for Randall, the only fulfillment was in pleasing his wife.
By the time Randall had pulled away, bits of him were clinging to Demora. She endured without complaint. He hugged her into sleep. He stared unblinking at the ceiling, listening to the slow tick of the bedside clock and the gases expelling from his body. In the still air of dark night, the whole world was a coffin. Randall wondered if being dead would always be so endlessly, endlessly boring.
Finally, the sun reddened the window. Another day of being dead. Randall went to the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. His eyes writhed with larvae. The softer meat of his face, the area around his eyes and lips, was dark as coal. The rest was shaded green, faintly moldy and mossy, down to his chest. He dared not look lower.
He turned on the shower, and the steam curled around him as he stepped under the nozzle. He welcomed the cleansing. The forceful jets of water dented his mottled skin, but he felt nothing. The flies spun in confused circles, their host lost in the scent of soap.
Bits of skin and flesh rained from his body. He stared between his rotted feet at the pieces of himself collecting in the drain. He spun the spigots until the water stopped. More of him fell away as he toweled himself dry.
“Honey?” Demora knocked on the bathroom door.
“I’m almost done.” His voice was muffled by the insects that had spawned in his mouth.
“Coffee and toast, or would you rather have hot cereal?”
Randall couldn’t face stuffing more tasteless food into his body. All he wanted was to pull his own eyelids down, to sleep, sleep. But Demora. She needed. He couldn’t leave her all alone. He’d promised love eternal.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, trying his best to sound cheerful. After all, they had made love last night. He ought to be in a good mood.
“Are you sure, dear?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He reached for his bathrobe as her footsteps faded down the hall. He wrapped the terry cloth around him. Once the soft fabric would have comforted him. Now, it only reminded him of all he couldn’t feel. He decided he would call in sick to work that day.
He went down the stairs, his feet slogging damply on the oak treads. The gloves, the makeup, the illusions were all useless now. The flesh under his jowls drooped in surrender to gravity and swung from side to side as he walked to the dinette. Demora whistled in the kitchen, an adagio operetta, her music accompanied by the percussion of cooking utensils. Randall slumped into a chair, beyond hope. If only he could die, finally and for real.
He straightened as Demora entered the room. Death wishes were selfish. He had made a promise. No force, from Beyond or otherwise, would make him yield before his duty was met.
Demora sat at the table across from him. Steam curled from her cup of coffee, a spirit of heat.
“We have to talk,” she said, leaning forward. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened, the look she got when she was serious about something. He looked out the window at the green, living world.
“It’s a beautiful day,” he said, “and I have a beautiful wife.”
She almost smiled. “That’s sweet, but you’re changing the subject.”
“What subject?” A piece of his lip plopped onto the table. A maggot writhed in the black meat.
“You’re keeping something from me.”
“Me?” He tried to open his eyes in feigned innocence, but he had no eyelids.
“We’ve always been honest with each other...”
“Of course, dear.”
“And I can tell when something’s bothering you.”
“Nothing’s bothering me.” Newly-born flies spilled from his mouth along with his words. The flies’ wings were shiny in the morning light.
“Don’t lie to me, honey.”
Yes, lying was futile. She could always read him like a book.
“I can tell you’re unhappy,” she continued. He raised his hand to protest. The white bones of his fingers showed through in places.
“And nothing would pain me more than for you to be unhappy,” Demora said. Those lips, those kind, serious eyes. He was never more sure of anything than he was of her undying love.
“Is it selfish of me?” he asked. “To refuse to let go?”
“No, I’m the selfish one. I’m holding you here when your heart is leading you in another direction.”
“For better or worse. That was my vow to you.”
“Till death do us part. That was also your vow.”
Her eyes welled with tears. So he had hurt her, despite all his effort and will, despite his defiance of nature. He couldn’t bear to hurt her.
She nodded at him. He understood. She was releasing him, granting him permission to die for her. He had been wrong. The supreme sacrifice was hers, not his.
“I’m so very tired,” he whispered.
She reached across the table, gripping his decaying hands in hers. His wedding ring clacked against bone.
“I love you,” he said, feeling his soul lifting and leaking away, wafting from his putrid corpse to mingle with the sky.
“I know,” she answered, her voice breaking. “Forever and a day.”
Even the day after forever had to end. His heart was light, buoyant with relief, and freed now from the cages of the flesh. His last sensation was of Demora’s hands squeezing good-bye, urging him onward, giving her blessing to his departure. He had fulfilled his vows, and all that remained was to find peace.
And wait for Demora.
The End
Missing Pieces Table of Contents
Master Table of Contents
###
As the title implies, this is a collection of assorted works that haven’t appeared in my numerous other story collections. As such, no theme or genre is intended. But in looking at the stories, I can confirm that I am one weird dude. Maybe as weird as you are for reading them. Thank you.
“The Beaulahville Gospel Jubilee” © 2010 by Scott Nicholson. Originally appeared in the Horror Writers Association anthology Blood Lite
“Apple Head Dolly” © 2009 by Scott Nicholson. Originally appeared in the anthology Appalachian Winter Hauntings
“Fallow” © 2010 by Scott Nicholson. Originally appeared in the Cemeteray Dance anthology Shivers VI.
“The Rocking Chair” © 2006 by Scott Nicholson.
“Silver Run” © 2007 by Scott Nicholson. Originally appeared in the anthology Legends of the Mountain State.
“As I Die Lying, Chapter One” © 2010 by Scott Nicholson. Novel excerpt.
“Floating Cathedral Song.” © 2010 by Scott Nicholson.
“The Banquet Table” © 2011 by Scott Nicholson.
“Darker with the Day” © 2010 by Scott Nicholson
“Constitution” © 1999 by Scott Nicholson. Originally appeared in Carpe Noctem 16.
I could put some more legal mumbo-jumbo here, but if you are an honest person, you don’t care, and if you are a pirate, you don’t care. So let’s just skip it.
Missing Pieces Table of Contents
Master Table of Contents
Mad Stacks: Story Collection Box Set Page 35
