Flesh For Fantasy

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  “I guess that’s the heart of it.”

  “Is she still in mourning for her mother?” Maggie asked. “That will make my job much harder, you know.”

  “She’s not really in mourning,” Angela said. “Her mother’s death, when it finally came, was a blessing. It had been a long and very rough time.”

  “She lives in Westchester County,” Lucy continued, “in the house that used to belong to her mother. Her father died when she was only four.”

  “No brothers or sisters?” Maggie asked.

  “No. And no other close relatives either.”

  “How do I meet her?”

  Lucy’s fingers clacked the computer keys. She swiveled the monitor so Maggie could see. Slowly the picture crystallized. Maggie watched the image of a plain-looking woman materialize. “That’s Barbara,” Lucy said, “right now.” There was momentary sound, but Lucy tapped what must have been a mute button.

  Maggie looked at the screen. A nondescript-looking woman sat beside a desk, typing furiously on a laptop computer as the hunky-looking man behind the desk talked. She saw him pick up the phone on his desk, press the receiver against his ear and swivel his chair so his back was toward the woman, who continued to work on the laptop.

  Maggie watched Barbara tuck an errant strand of her shoulder-length medium-brown hair behind one ear while her boss talked on. “Look at that woman,” Maggie said. “She’s not even wearing makeup. And that blouse…” Barbara was wearing an orangy-yellow blouse and a brown tweed skirt. “It’s so wrong for her coloring. And sensible shoes, no doubt. Who’s the guy?”

  “That’s Steve Gordon, one of the partners of Gordon, Watson, Kelly and Wise.” Angela gazed at the screen. “He’s rich, bright, successful, and very eligible. And as I said, she’s crazy about him.”

  Maggie watched Steve hang up the phone and turn back toward Barbara. He opened a desk drawer, propped his feet on it and began to talk. Lucy tapped the button and the three women could hear the sound.

  “That was Lisa,” the man said. “Make me a reservation for eight o’clock tonight at Enrico’s and send her a dozen roses. No, on second thought, make it just an arrangement.”

  “Of course,” Barbara said. Maggie caught the heat of the woman’s gaze as she looked at her boss, while he seemed oblivious.

  “Well, that’s your job, for starters,” Lucy said, tapping the mute button again. “First a physical makeover, then the rest.”

  “Yes,” Angela said. “I think she should end up with that gorgeous Mr. Gordon. I can see it. A large house in the country, kids, horses, dogs…

  “Actually,” Maggie said, “he reminds me of Arnie Becker on LA Law. A real ladies’ man and just a bit sleazy.”

  “Yeah,” Lucy said, “me too. But Barbara really likes him.”

  “She would,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes.

  “Well, I think he’s perfect,” Angela said.

  “Does it have to end up with them together for me to succeed?” Maggie asked, thinking that Arnie was all wrong for Barbara.

  “Oh, no, of course not,” Lucy said. “Actually, I think she should get out, see the world, maybe end up like you did.”

  “Free will,” Angela said. “That’s what we advocate here. Her life is her choice. It’s just that she has no real choices now. We want to grant her mother’s request and see what happens.”

  “Do you think you’re ready for the task?” Lucy asked.

  “I guess so.” Maggie shrugged her shoulders. What choice did she have? This was kind of like the Mad Tea Party in Alice in Wonderland, but her options were few. And, of course, this project did buy time for her back on earth. Wondering how long she could stretch this out, she uncrossed her legs and waited for the magical zap to transport her to meet Barbara.

  “Well?” Angela said, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’m waiting for the magic,” Maggie answered.

  Lucy motioned in the direction from which Maggie had entered the room. “The elevator’s that way. Just press the ground-floor button.”

  “Oh, Maggie said, standing up. She looked down at her diaphanous white gown. “And do I get clothes? This is a bit overly dramatic, don’t you think? I’ll scare poor Barbara to death.”

  “Hmmm,” Lucy said. “You’re right. We’ll see to it that there are proper clothes in the waiting room on the ground floor. It’s on the right just this side of the front door. Change, then go out the door and you’ll be just where you should be.”

  Maggie nodded, then turned toward the door. “Good luck,” Angela and Lucy said in unison.

  “Thanks,” Maggie said over her shoulder. “I guess.”

  As the computer room door closed behind Maggie, Lucy held out her hand to Angela. “It’s a bet?”

  Angela took the proffered hand. “I firmly believe that Barbara will end up settled and happy in six months. Mrs. Steven Gordon. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it.”

  “And I believe that once she discovers sex, there’ll be no stopping her. Whoever invented it, it’s the strongest drive we have, thank Lucifer. She’ll get into no end of trouble and she’ll love it. I’ll bet on it.”

  “You know, people would never believe that you want anyone to be happy. You’re supposed to represent misery, suffering, and hardship, and here you are betting on happiness of one sort or another.”

  “I know. But happiness isn’t all it’s cracked up to be either.”

  In the room on the ground floor, Maggie found a pair of well-washed jeans, a soft light gray turtleneck sweater along with underwear, socks, and slightly worn running shoes. She dressed, leaving the almost-transparent white gown on a hook behind the door. Then she left the room and walked across what appeared to be a marble lobby toward the revolving door. When she pushed the brass handle, the door turned and she exited on the other side, right into what she somehow knew was Barbara Enright’s bedroom. Fortunately, Barbara wasn’t in it at the time. Maggie could hear sounds from the kitchen below. “God,” she muttered, recognizing the unmistakable sound of a food processor, “I’ll bet she cooks, too.” She shook her head, then crossed to the large walk-in closet, pulled the door open and flipped on the light.

  Oh, Lord, she thought, riffling through a collection of slightly dowdy dresses, blouses, and suits. Way in the back, she found a soft chiffon dress in shades of blue. She lifted the hanger from the rod and held the dress at arm’s length. It was slightly out of style, but beautiful nonetheless. “Now this is more like it,” she said, putting the dress back where she had found it. “There’s hope yet.”

  Suddenly she realized that she had been moving things and feeling things just like she had when she’d been alive. Phew. Been alive. That sounds awful. I don’t feel dead. Actually, she thought, pinching her arm, I don’t feel any differently than I did yesterday. She looked at the darkened window. It must be evening now, she thought, but I thought it was morning when I was with the gruesome twosome up there and I was on the phone with Paul last evening, I guess.

  She looked at Barbara’s bedside table and spotted the clock. “Five-thirty and it’s pitch dark,” she said aloud. “But it should still be light. It’s midsummer.” She crossed to the window and looked out. There were small areas of snow on the ground and the stars shone brightly in a blue-black sky. “I guess time doesn’t work for the girls the way it works here on earth.” She thought about Lucy and Angela and marveled at how sanguine she had become about something so impossible. “I feel like a character in a play and soon the curtain will go down or we’ll break for a commercial and all this will all make sense.” She shrugged again. “Oh, well.” She crossed to the door and started down the stairs. “Better get this over with.”

  Dressed in a baggy sweat suit, Barbara Enright scooped the butter-and-garlic mix from the food processor and carefully spread it on the slices of French bread she had laid out on the cutting board. Meticulously she covered the bread to the edges so it would toast properly under the broiler. As she finished the second slice, s
he reached out and almost without looking swirled a spoon through the small pot of simmering marinara sauce. She popped the bread in the oven, then lifted a strand of spaghetti with the clawlike device and snipped off about an inch. She popped the piece in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Still just a bit too firm, she thought, remembering when she had to get it almost mushy so her mother could chew it.

  As she mused, she realized that her mother’s death didn’t hurt anymore. With almost seven months gone by, she could remember the wonderful life her mother had led before the pain.

  Barbara tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, stirred the sauce and checked on the bread. She pulled one of her mother’s good Límoges plates from the closet, poured a Coke and set herself a place on the large kitchen table. With perfect timing born of years of cooking for herself and her mother, Barbara removed the bread from the oven, drained and served the spaghetti and poured sauce over the top. She flipped on the TV on the counter and watched I Love Lucy fade in from the darkness.

  “Some red wine would really go better with that.”

  Barbara jumped and tipped over her chair at the sound of the voice behind her. With one hand reaching for the phone, her fingers ready to dial 911, she turned slowly. “Who the hell…”

  “It’s okay,” the jeans-clad figure said. “It’s really okay. I’m Maggie and we’re going to be spending quite a bit of time together for a while.”

  “Get out before I call the police,” Barbara said, trying to make her quavering voice sufficiently forceful.

  “Don’t do that or you’ll look like a fool,” Maggie said, crossing the kitchen and leaning over the pot on the stove. “Nice sauce. I always loved a good marinara sauce.” She lifted a strand of spaghetti and dangled it over he mouth. Nipping off the bottom, she said, “Vermicelli. And properly al dente. Not many people know how to cook pasta correctly.”

  Barbara stood, mouth slightly open, with her hand on the phone. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she hadn’t lifted the receiver yet.

  “I know,” Maggie said, picking up a slice of garlic bread, “this is something of a shock, but believe me, it’s taking me a little while to adjust, too.” She took a large bite and chewed thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t even know whether I can eat.” She swallowed. “I guess I can, but I’m not very hungry.” She pulled out the chair opposite Barbara’s and sat down. “Wouldn’t you know it. I can probably eat what I want and not gain weight, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Would…” Barbara cleared her throat and tried again. “Would you kindly tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” Maggie said, swallowing the chewed mouthful. “But before I try to explain, you’d really better sit down.”

  Barbara thought she should be afraid, but she was more baffled than frightened. This woman had arrived in her kitchen unannounced and had made herself totally at home. She shook her head, righted her chair and dropped into it. The woman had, Barbara admitted, warm, honest eyes that looked directly at you when she spoke and an open, friendly smile. Wasn’t that what made con artists so hard to resist? “Okay. Tell me what you’re doing here. And if you’re a salesman with a very peculiar way of getting my attention, I’m not buying.”

  “I’m not selling anything,” Maggie said, “but if I were, you’d be buying. I’ve actually come to change your life.”

  “Out,” Barbara said. “Get out. I don’t know how you got in here with your ‘I’m not selling anything’ sales pitch, but if you don’t leave I will call the cops.” She reached over and moved the phone from the counter to the table beside her right hand. “Now get out.”

  “Hmm. How to explain? Let me begin by introducing myself. My name’s Maggie Sullivan and I’m dead.” She reached over and flipped off the TV.

  Her mind whirling, Barbara reran all the six P.M. sales pitches she’d heard over the years. It had gotten so she didn’t answer her phone between the time she got home from work and eight P.M. Hi, they all started, my name is Maggie. She’d heard them on the phone hundreds of times. She glared. “Sure. And your next line is ‘And how are you this evening, Ms. Enright,’” she parroted as the last words of Maggie’s speech penetrated, “ and I’m calling on behalf of…’ You’re what?” Had she heard correctly?

  “I’m afraid you’ll find this hard to believe, but I’m dead.”

  “Sure and I’m Minnie Mouse.”

  “You’re not Minnie Mouse, but I am dead.” Maggie hesitated. “How can I convince you? You know, I’m really new to this and I don’t know what I can and can’t do.” She reached for the bread knife that Barbara had used earlier. “I hate this, but I think it just might work. I mean a dead person shouldn’t be able to feel pain and I shouldn’t bleed. Right?” To test the first part, Maggie pinched herself in the arm. Hard. “Well, I didn’t feel that.” She picked up the knife and held it poised over the index finger of her empty hand. “Do I really have to prove this to you? It may not be pleasant if I’m wrong.”

  Barbara raised one eyebrow. “This is certainly the most original pitch I’ve ever seen. I can’t wait to see how you’ll get yourself out of this.” Strange, Barbara thought, but I actually rather like this ridiculous woman.

  “Okay then,” Maggie said. “Here goes.” She took the knife and drew it slowly across the pad of her finger. “Amazing,” she said. “I really didn’t feel that at all.” She held the finger toward Barbara. “See? No blood. And you can see I made a really deep cut.”

  Barbara could see that there was a deep cut across Maggie’s finger that wasn’t bleeding. “What’s the gimmick? Are you selling artificial limbs? And why would that interest me?”

  “Cut me some slack, will you?” Maggie said, putting the knife aside. “I’m really dead.” She stood up. “Have you got any wine? I find I need something to fortify myself.”

  Barbara motioned toward a lower cabinet, and when Maggie opened the door she saw a reasonably well-stocked wine rack. “I guess it will have to be red since white wine should really be chilled.” She pulled out a Chianti classico. “Corkscrew?” Numbly Barbara motioned to a drawer. While Maggie quickly removed the cork from the bottle, Barbara walked into the living room and returned with two glasses. Maggie quickly half filled the glasses and raised hers in silent toast.

  As Barbara watched, Maggie took a sip, swished it around her mouth and swallowed. “Not bad, but a bit harsh. It really could have breathed for an hour or two, but it’s okay.” She waved at Barbara’s glass. “Drink.”

  Barbara took a sip and swallowed. “I’m not much for wine, but my mom used to enjoy a glass with dinner.” She put her glass down and took her seat. Maggie took a few more sips, then again sat opposite Barbara. “You know,” Maggie said, “I don’t even know whether I will have to pee as the evening progresses or whether this just goes into the ether somewhere. I have no blood, so I can’t get tipsy. I wonder.”

  Without thinking, Barbara took another swallow. “Okay. You’ve been here fifteen minutes and I still have no idea why.”

  “I’m here for you. God, that sounds like a line from a bad sci-fi drama. Actually, I’m here because of your mother.”

  Barbara bristled. “What does my mother have to do with this? She died a while ago.”

  “I know. About seven months ago to be precise. And after she died, she asked a favor of two women I know. She wants you to be happy. Get out in the world. Date. Fuck. You know.”

  “I don’t know anything like that at all and I’ll thank you to leave my mother out of this.”

  “But she’s an integral part of it.” Maggie reached out to pat the back of Barbara’s hand, but the younger woman pulled away. “Let me explain.” Briefly Maggie told Barbara about her heart attack and how she had suddenly found herself in the Mad Tea Party with Lucy and Angela. “They can’t decide whether I’m to go…” Maggie made a thumbs-up with one hand and a thumbs-down with the other. “So they gave me a project. You.”

  “I don’t for
a moment believe any of this,” Barbara said, drinking more of her wine, “but why me?”

  “I told you before,” Maggie explained. “It was your mother. On her way through, she asked the girls to help you out.” Maggie’s head tipped to one side and she gazed into space. “Actually, I don’t quite understand how your mother ended up in the computer room. According to Angela and Lucy, the interview process is only for the undecideds. Your mother’s goodness seems to have left the girls little choice. Maybe it was a special request of some kind.” She refocused on Barbara. “Anyway, I’m now here for you.”

  “Your reference to the Mad Tea Party is accurate. I still don’t believe you.”

  “Well, that’s neither here nor there, actually. I assume you want to get out more. Date. I saw the way you looked at your boss this afternoon.”

  Barbara’s head snapped up. “How the hell do you know how I looked at my boss earlier?”

  “The girls have a monitor and they can tune in on people. We watched you at work today so I would know who you were.”

  “This gets crazier and crazier,” Barbara said. “Do you mean that they could be watching us right now?”

  “Probably not. With the millions of people they have to check on as people come through for approval, I doubt whether they have time for idle peeping.”

  Barbara shivered. “It gives me the creeps nonetheless.” She found she was actually playing along with this fantasy. Or was it a fantasy? “So you’re supposed to give me a makeover. What’s this going to cost me?”

  “Nothing. And it’s more than a makeover, it’s a whole change of attitude. According to your mother, you’re…How can I best say this? You’re a bit of a prude.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just selective. Just because I don’t let every Tom, Dick, and Harry into my bedroom doesn’t make me a prude. Not in the least.”

  “Selectivity is good, Babs, but it’s not life.”

  A handsome face suddenly flashed through Barbara’s mind and her patience snapped. “Don’t call me Babs. I hate it.”