Flowers for Her Grave

by Judy Clemons

  Interspersed between these various activities, she looked at the cell phone Bailey had given her. She longed to call someone—anyone—to hear a friendly voice. Her brother, her lawyer, Bailey herself. Eric. Finally, she took the phone and shoved it deep in her bag, where it wasn’t a constant temptation. She couldn’t afford to get found. Not now. Not before she had her new papers.

  Casey’s stomach soon began protesting her big dinner, unused to having such rich food. That night was a long one, with cramps and other symptoms of system overload. The only bright spot was that Death wasn’t there to gloat.

  By morning, Casey had sworn off rich food forever, and roused herself with a double workout. She barely made it through, but felt much better afterward. That was the beginning of a long several days, during which Casey just tried to keep herself occupied.

  The first day, she bought her own cleaning supplies and scrubbed the room from top to bottom. She pulled the mattress and box springs apart and doused them with Lysol, leaving them to dry for several hours. Once the bed was ready, she put on a new mattress pad, new sheets, and a new blanket, leaving the others in a heap outside her door. The pillows, such as they were, went out with the sheets, and she replaced them with two new ones. She covered the carpet with shake-on sanitizer and swiped one of the vacuums and a brand new sweeper bag from the “Maintenance Closet”—not that she ever saw anybody maintaining anything. She moved the furniture to sweep every square inch. She purchased her own set of towels, and sent the old ones out with the rest of the linens, hopefully to be burned. For the rest of her stay she left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, and on the inside, she installed a brand new slide lock, which kept her feeling marginally safer.

  After that, she had to find other things to do.

  She did her laundry twice in the crappy Laundromat down the street. It was a novelty to have to guard her clothes while they were in the dryer.

  She bought food at the closest Whole Foods store—many blocks away—and found delis for lunch where she could get soup, or sandwiches on whole wheat bread.

  She worked out twice a day, once performing differing kata, once doing the more routine sit-ups and push-ups.

  She studied her face in the mirror, amazed at how fast faces heal when one has a regular diet and enough sleep.

  And she watched lots and lots of bad TV. Since the motel had no cable—their usual tenants not requiring the additional entertainment—she was stuck with whatever the networks were offering. Death always joined her for the evenings, getting a kick out of the various reality shows and offering advice to both the Big Losers and the nannies. The most memorable moment was when Death hovered inches from the screen, yelling at the mother of an out-of-control five-year-old that she should “shut the bugger up in the closet for a day with no food or water and see how he liked that.” Somehow Casey didn’t think Death would make the greatest parent.

  It was a very long week later that Casey’s query at the front desk brought a positive response.

  “Oh, yeah,” the icky clerk said, sucking on her cigarette. “Package came for you yesterday, Miss Meade.” She said the name with a sneer.

  “Yesterday?”

  “I hid it under the counter so no one would take it. Guess I forgot about it.” She inhaled again, her cheeks caving and her eyes regarding Casey with smug satisfaction.

  “Thank you for taking care of it so well.” Casey wanted to knock the woman out with a quick punch to the nose, but she restrained herself.

  It didn’t look like the old hag had tampered with the envelope, but Casey gave it a good once-over, to be sure. The seal seemed unbroken, and the postmark was the right one, so Casey would have to believe the best. The woman’s eyes flicked from Casey’s face to the package, and Casey could see the desire there. She wanted desperately to know what was in there. She’d probably studied it up and down to find ways to open it without Casey knowing.

  She’d have to live with the disappointment.

  Casey gave her a bright smile and took the plain brown package back to her room.

  Daisy Gray had a Florida driver’s license with a Tallahassee address, a motorcycle endorsement, and a birth date thirty-two years earlier. She had dark hair—still dyed from Casey’s time in Kansas—and brown eyes. The heavily layered make-up made Casey’s messed-up face from a week ago look surprisingly normal. The license would expire in two years.

  Casey took a deep breath, closing her eyes. This driver’s license was the beginning of a new life. When the cops came looking for Casey Kaufmann Maldonado or Smith or Jones they would find only air. Casey was about to disappear.

  “So, can we finally blow this repulsive joint?” Death said, standing in the middle of the room, not touching anything. “Although I have to say you did at least make it livable.”

  Casey packed her bags, leaving the cleaning supplies, the new linens, and the extra lock she was sure the motel’s usual clientele would appreciate. “Let’s go. And let’s never think about this place again.” She smiled, and for the first time in months, she meant it.

  Chapter Four

  Florida was hot. Hot and muggy and miserable.

  “Why did we come here again?” Death waved a fan made of feathers, which did nothing but move the sultry air from one place to another.

  “I’ve always wanted to live in Florida.”

  “Why? It’s hotter than hell down here.”

  Casey laughed, and Death preened at her response to the semi-witty joke.

  “I’ll find someplace nice,” Casey said. “With air-conditioning.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that. Where are we, anyway?”

  “Tallahassee.”

  Casey and Death had walked away from the rental car shop and headed into town. “I need a newspaper. Or a library.” Casey brightened. “I can use a library again. Ms. Daisy Gray, library patron.”

  Death made a face. “Do I have to call you Daisy?”

  “Only around people who can see you.”

  “And how are we supposed to know who they are?”

  “How do you think? They’ll look at you. People who can’t see you look only at me, remember?”

  Casey had discovered a couple weeks earlier that only those who aren’t afraid of death could see the physical embodiment of it. Those who were afraid—and those people far outweighed their opposite—had no idea Death was anywhere in the vicinity. So far those who had the ability to see Casey’s companion had been limited to very young children, a man with Down’s Syndrome, a deeply religious woman, and a woman who had lost her husband in a tragic accident. Sort of like Casey.

  Casey glared at Death.

  “What? Why look at me like that?”

  “We’ve met other people who see you. Why can’t you go bother them for a while?”

  “I’ve told you. You’re far more interesting than anyone else I’ve come across.”

  “I have a hard time believing that. What about Queen Elizabeth? John Dillinger? Jesus?”

  Death winced and looked around like someone might hear. “Now don’t go joking about him.”

  “Fine. But there have to be others who would be more interesting, like…” She thought. “Like William Shakespeare?”

  “Okay. Fine. You’re more interesting than anyone I’ve come across in the last two hundred years. That make you feel better?”

  “Tons.” Casey stopped at a drug store and asked for directions to the library. It would be another two miles of walking. No matter. She could use the exercise.

  Death, however, moaned and groaned about the extra work, asking why they couldn’t just take a taxi. It wasn’t like they didn’t have the money.

  “Look.” Casey was trying to keep her temper in check. “If you don’t want to walk, it’s pretty simple. Don’t do it. Fly, or float, or just transport yourself, whatever you people do. Or even better—go harass someone else.”

  “You people? Is that a racist remark? Should I be offended?”

  Casey s
hook her head and walked faster. By the time she got to the library, she was sweating. She burst into the building, loving the rush of the air conditioning on her damp skin.

  “May I help you?” The librarian—Mrs. Elaine Simms, Branch Manager—looked at Casey and her bags with some surprise.

  “Yes, please. I’d like to use a computer.”

  “Do you have a library card?”

  “No, but I’d love to get one.”

  “Oh, gag me,” Death said. “Since when did you become so chipper?”

  Casey handed over her driver’s license.

  “Do you have another form of identification?” the librarian asked. “Something with your current address?”

  “I’m just moving here, so I don’t have anything.”

  “But your license says Tallahassee.”

  “Oh, um, right. I’ve been gone for a while. Service assignment. Overseas. I sold my house before I left.”

  “Way to go,” Death said. “You didn’t sound like an idiot at all just then.”

  “All right,” the librarian said. “No problem.” She returned Casey’s license. “You may use a terminal today, and when you have your new address you can come back. But you will need to leave your bags with me.”

  Casey clutched them. “I don’t think I can—”

  “It’s a secure room. They’ll be fine.”

  Casey backed toward the door.

  “Casey,” Death said calmly. “She’s a librarian. She’s not going to steal your pathetic little collection of clothes and toiletries. Or even your treasures.”

  Death was right. Of course.

  “Fine,” Casey said. She handed her bags to Mrs. Elaine Simms, Branch Manager, who scooted them across the floor into a room behind the counter.

  “Terminal two, please,” the librarian said when she was back. “Right there.” She pointed Casey toward a computer.

  Casey thanked her and got settled in the hard chair.

  “So what are we looking for?” Death sat on the desk cross-legged, with a nametag reading, Grey Walker, Life and Death Manager.

  Casey waved her hand. “Will you move? I can’t see when you’re hunched over the screen.”

  The man at terminal three gave Casey a startled look.

  “Sorry,” Casey said. “I’ll stop talking to myself.”

  He gave her a wavery smile and returned to his work.

  Casey went to monster.com and typed, “Martial Arts, Tallahassee, Florida,” in the job search box.

  sorry there are 0 martial arts jobs

  She frowned, and typed in “Martial Arts, Florida.”

  The negative findings were repeated.

  “Something else, perhaps?” Death said. “Crabby lady, Anywhere with AC?”

  Casey shook her head and typed “Fitness instructor, Tallahassee, Florida.”

  sorry there are 0 fitness instructor jobs

  “How about your theater background? You could get back onto the stage.”

  “Not without giving myself away,” Casey whispered. “My union card has my real name on it, remember?”

  “Would you have to show it to be a fight instructor?”

  “No worthwhile director would hire me without knowing my training, and how am I going to tell them that without advertising who I really am?”

  “Just trying to help, Miss Negativity.”

  She typed in “fitness instructor” again, taking out ‘Tallahassee.’

  there is 1 fitness instructor job in Florida

  Casey clicked on it.

  “Well?” Death said. “Where is it?”

  “Raceda.”

  “Nice. They’ve got great beaches.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “What? Too many fat people?”

  She read the description:

  Wanted: fitness instructor for enclosed community. Hours flexible. Must have personal training certification, as well as aerobics, swimming, and yoga. Must provide references. Previous experience necessary.

  Casey hadn’t thought about the reference problem. Seeing how Daisy Gray had just been born that week, she didn’t have anyone to call.

  “I say go for it,” Death said. “You really don’t want to be flipping burgers, not with your abs.”

  “What? I just show up and say, ‘Sorry, you’ll have to take my word I’m the right person for the job?’”

  “No.” Death was using a patient, soothing voice, as if dealing with a difficult child. “You go there, offer to lead some classes for free, and they can determine your suitability.”

  “But that doesn’t tell them I’m not some psycho. They’ll want to be careful, since it’s an enclosed community. Those kinds of people are always paranoid.”

  “Fine.” Death hopped off the desk. “Look for something else. A desk job. Construction. I don’t care.”

  Casey looked at Death, who stood beside the desk, arms crossed. She sighed. Death was right. Again. That was getting old.

  She caught the eye of the man at the next terminal—he was staring at her some more, and she wondered just how soon he’d be calling security. Casey quickly wrote down the information for the job, gave the man a way-too-brilliant smile, and went back to the front desk.

  “Done already?” the librarian asked.

  “Just needed one thing.”

  “Let me get your bags.”

  A minute later Casey was on the street.

  “Now what?” Death squinted into the bright afternoon.

  Casey headed back the way they’d come. “Now we find a way to Raceda. Guess we should’ve kept that rental car.”

  “If we do the rental car thing again, make sure it’s not a compact this time. You’ve got cash, you should be riding in style.”

  So Casey picked a hybrid, with even less room for passengers than a compact.

  “You know,” Death said, squished between Casey’s two bags in the front—and only—seat, “you could use the trunk for your baggage.”

  “Okay,” Casey said. “Go on back.”

  “Ha, ha.” Death wiggled around, trying to get comfortable, but couldn’t find a position that allowed a line of sight over knees or feet. “Oh, fine. I’ll see you there.”

  And Death was gone in a puff of irritated mist.

  Casey turned on the radio. It was playing Pink’s, “So What.” She turned it up as loud as she could bear it, and sang along.

  Chapter Five

  The Flamingo Apartments lived up to their namesake. Tall, skinny, and pink, with white and lime green highlights, and palm trees surrounding the parking lot. Behind the building Casey could see the ocean, sparkling and blue, lined with white sand. A pelican perched on the dock, and seagulls flitted about, calling to each other. Sailboats floated past, their sails taut, probably headed toward the marina Casey had passed on her way in. The docks there had been lined with more boats than Casey could count, from the smallest sailboat to the huge kind you could live on for a year. Casey was rested, and had eaten a good breakfast after staying overnight in a hotel.

  “I’m glad I dressed appropriately.”

  Casey glanced at her companion, who wore all white, and held a walking stick with a brass handle. “Who are you trying to be?”

  “The cool, southern citizen.”

  “You can do cool?”

  Death glared at her. “I am the epitome of cool.”

  “Whatever.” Casey looked up at the building through the windshield of the car. “I guess we go in the front. I wonder how tight security is?”

  “Doesn’t matter. You could take ‘em.”

  “I don’t want to take them. I want to act like a normal human being.”

  Death snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  Casey got out of the car and slammed the door.

  “No need to get huffy,” Death said, appearing suddenly on the sidewalk.

  A guard in typical guard-style clothes met them just inside the entrance. He sat behind a large desk and smiled, his teeth shiny in his dark fa
ce. “Good morning. How may I help you today?”

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Williams, please. I have an appointment.”

  “Oh,” Death said. “That kind of normal human being. You have manners, and everything.”

  The guard looked at his appointment book. “Ms. Gray? Ten-o’clock?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir?” Death choked out a laugh.

  Casey took a deep calming breath, knowing it would look very bad if she tried to slug someone the guard couldn’t see.

  The guard picked up a phone and spoke into it. “Ms. Mendez? A Ms. Gray is here to see Mrs. Williams.”

  “Ms…Mrs…” Death said. “It looks like we may have joined polite society, at last.”

  The guard set down the phone and gestured toward the second set of double doors. “Mrs. Williams is expecting you. Right through there, please.”

  Casey gripped her purse—which still felt very strange. How long since she’d carried one of those?—and went into the main building. She was greeted by the smell of tropical flowers. Live palm trees reached toward the glass ceiling. Sunlight shone through the panes, lighting up the large room, and Casey almost pulled out her sunglasses. A bar took up the entire right side of the space, and a lounge with a dozen comfortable chairs and sofas were scattered—in a planned, casual sort of way—throughout the area. The bar was closed, but a little coffee shop on the left side of the hall was open, and a few people sat at small tables in front of it, one man with a newspaper, and one woman, about Casey’s age, working on her laptop, with a cup of coffee and a half-eaten bagel at her elbow. She looked up, and a thrill ran from Casey’s head to her toes.

  The woman, even sitting, was tall, and her coffee-colored skin shone with health and fitness. A jacket hung over the back of her chair, which meant her muscular arms were revealed from under her tank top. She sat with a posture of confidence and no-nonsense, and her kinky hair sprayed out in a shining mass of curls, like a dark halo. But it was much more than her appearance that got to Casey. It was the look in her eye. Casey recognized it. It spoke of battles fought and won, of challenge, and of a desire to control her surroundings. Casey hesitated, wanting to speak to her, knowing that just as much was being broadcast about herself as about the other woman.