Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper

by Nancy Kilpatrick

  “Done.” He extended his hand to shake. “Well, I hope this gives you some closure, love.”

  The love was a nice touch. I stared at his hand generating one of those awkward-silence-moments, but when I looked into his soft brown eyes, I wondered if maybe he was being sincere. “Thanks. For being so quick.” Not unlike high school. The thought brought a genuine smile to my face, and I slid my hand into his for the shake.

  His touch felt warm. Not sweaty, or creepy. Warm. Comforting. A human kind of connection that reminded me I was still very much alive. I probably held on for a little too long, causing another awkward silence.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll show myself out.”

  As he left, I watched his well formed ass saunter back and forth with his strides. With the self-reflection only the dying can truly muster, I wondered whether maybe Cliff had been more of a man than I’d given him credit for. That maybe he wasn’t a regular in the diner because of the bacon.

  Then the door closed and I felt truly alone.

  For the first time in seven years, I didn’t go into the diner on Sunday. After learning of the town’s cancer-gossip, I decided to load up on cholesterol, stacking heart attack’s chances. I defrosted smoked salmon in cold water in the sink, and while the pot came to a boil for poached eggs, I made hollandaise sauce, with extra butter and enough yolks that I should’ve picked up a defibrillator with the groceries.

  My stomach was about to explode after four servings. Leaving the kitchen in a state that would normally drive me to drink, I chewed a few antacids, grabbed my car keys, and headed for the garage, feeling a need for speed.

  Death was sitting in the driver’s seat, with the window rolled down.

  I swallowed, waiting for him to speak.

  He picked at his nails, and yes, ew, licked whatever he scraped out.

  My arms crossed over my chest and I demanded, “You said Wednesday.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “You had four Eggs Montreal.”

  I hung my head in shame, then added, “Don’t you have your own wheels?”

  “I’ve always wanted to visit Niagara Falls. The Canadian side, naturally, since the views are more panoramic from their vantage points. And road trips are always more pleasant with company. Do you have a valid passport?”

  I nodded. The thought of Death driving my car gave me a thousand different kinds of creep. But he seemed comfortable, and I wasn’t about to give him a reason to be angry with me. I figured, what the heck? Why not spend my last Sunday with the dark dude on a road trip where I could enjoy the scenery and pick the brains (if he had any in there) of a guy who had literally seen it all? Besides, I had intended to go for a drive, to feel the wind in my hair.

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Take your time.”

  I returned with a bottle of water, my passport, and enough snacks for two. After the incident at the diner, I knew Death had an appetite, and I didn’t want him sucking back all the beef jerky. When I stepped into the car, I expected it to stink like the booth had last Wednesday. This time, though, he smelled of old tires and blackened motor oil, as though he’d spent the last couple of days fixing all the cars in hell.

  When I took my iPod out of my pocket, he blocked the USB port. “Driver picks the tunes,” he said. From beneath his trench coat, he pulled out a CD, the kind you burn yourself, with the title, Road Trip Mix scribbled in red Sharpie across the top. “Do you have a GPS?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “But I know the way.”

  “Lovely.”

  Death put my car in gear and before I could click the seatbelt into place, we were off.

  By the time we had crossed the border into Canada, I had heard enough 1980s hair bands for this plus a couple more lifetimes. Who knew Death had a thing for long-haired posers, distortion pedals, and Marshall stacks.

  We found a fantastic parking space, directly across from the American Falls. “I don’t think I’ve ever parked this close,” I said.

  Death yanked the parking brake, and shrugged. “It’s a perk.”

  “Cool.”

  We slipped into the crowd and headed for one of the most recognizable railings from my childhood. The scrolls in the ironwork always reminded me of my grandparents. Nana had loved the falls and dragged me here on more than one summer vacation while my mother ran the diner. My favorite picture of Nana and Grandpa was of the two of them, standing in front of the railing, him wearing those plaid pants with the white belt that advertised his job as a real estate agent, her with her fine-as-a-wisp hair combed over, her white purse (to match his belt, of course) dangling from her arm, and her lips stained that deep pink-red she always wore on a bright, sunny day. I’m not sure what made them happier: being with each other, spending the day with me, or just the glory of a gorgeous day spent in misty gardens.

  Death and I had lucked out with a perfect day of our own to gawk at nature’s wonder. I inhaled a long, deep breath and tried to imagine what it must have felt like a few hundred years ago when the first white men, guided by the natives, saw the falls for the first time.

  Turning my attention to my companion, if you could call him that, I watched Death as he studied the base of the American Falls.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” I said.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Wait ‘til you stand at the brink of the Horseshoe Falls.” I pointed towards the railing where a crowd of tourists jockeyed for positions at the edge.

  Death lingered, grasping the railing like a bull rope. “Many die here each year. I understand now why they’re drawn to the spectacle.”

  I leaned with my back to the railing, taking in the manicured gardens, the endless stream of cars circling for a place to park, the countless cameras strung around necks. Twice I opened my mouth to respond, then changed my mind. Like Death, I was mesmerized by the power of this place. Somehow, in his presence, I felt the need to be profound. Otherwise, my words would waste in the wind, adding to the ever-present mist.

  “Are you tempting me?” I asked.

  “I’ve penciled you in for Wednesday.”

  “Shouldn’t a guy like you be, you know, busy? All the time?”

  “My services aren’t required every time.”

  “Let the minions do the work, huh?”

  “Precisely.”

  “I rate face time with the big boss?”

  I looked at him when he didn’t answer right away. He gazed at the water, lost in thought, or his duties, or whatever ran through his rotting mind.

  “Am I special?” I asked.

  “Everyone is unique, extraordinary in their own way.”

  I laughed out loud, catching the attention of a cluster of tourists. “Death waxes philosophical,” I said, quiet enough that only the two of us could hear. I pointed to a young girl, the only one from the group still staring at the two of us, as though we were built of fear. “You’re scaring her,” I said.

  “It’s you she fears.”

  Staring back at the girl, flashing my best smile, I tried not to look like a psychopath with a pocket full of candy and a heart full of wicked intentions. She grabbed the hand of the nearest adult, probably her father, but continued to stare at me.

  “Does she know what you are?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Only those in my agenda see beyond my humble attire.” Gesturing, he held open his trench coat, revealing khaki shorts with zippered pockets and a plain white T-shirt. “What did you see in me, back in the diner, so that you recognized me straight away?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I just knew.”

  For a moment, my heart skipped, as though a flash of something dire, like fur or scales, was about to erupt from beneath that trench coat.

  The moment passed.


  With a tug on the sleeve of his coat, I said, “Come on,” and dragged him toward the Horseshoe Falls.

  By the time we had walked along the railing to the brink —the spot where the water rushes over the edge to smash onto the rocks below — my clothes hung heavy on me, sodden by the mist. During one trip here with my grandparents, we had seen a movie about a family whose boat capsized in the river above the falls. The father swam to shore, the son was tossed over the falls with only a life jacket to protect him and he miraculously lived. The daughter was yanked out of the river in the nick of time by tourists who were milling around right where Death and I stood now. The daughter’s terror had felt so real to me, as though I had come within inches of being sucked over the edge to drop a zillion feet and break apart on the rocks below. Outside the theatre, on the way to our car, Nana and Grandpa had chatted about how real the experience had felt to them. All I could do was grip their hands, my Nana on my left and my Grandpa on my right, and try to swallow away the lump in my throat. For the first time in my nine years of life I realized that I could die, would die. That at any moment, I might close my eyes, fall asleep, and drift into oblivion. That day I had never felt so loved and yet also so alone. Almost three decades later, everyone I loved had died, and I had filled in their gaps with nothing but loneliness and eggs. It struck me as grimly funny that I was spending one of my last days with Death instead of with the living.

  “The precipice, or the brink as you call it,” he said, “is definitely worth the walk.”

  Jolting back to reality, I glanced up at Death. “Told you.”

  “You did.”

  I glanced around for the little girl, the one who had been more afraid of me than of my road-buddy, but the crowds were too thick to see her.

  “You done?” I asked.

  “Are you?”

  I stuffed both my hands into my pockets, feeling cold shivers despite the warm day. “Yeah.”

  He tipped his hat, or at least pretended to, as he had left the fedora in my car. I felt as though something had changed between us, like we were either becoming friends or sizing each other up as enemies. For the first time since his visit last Wednesday I began to feel the weight of him, and the panic of time ticking louder than it had ever ticked before.

  My thoughts veered towards Cliff, of his warm smile, firm grasp of his own worth, and wonderfully formed ass.

  When my focus returned to reality, Death was almost at the car. As I sprinted to catch up, I took one last look over my shoulder at the falls. The tourist girl was standing at the railing, her back to her family and their picture-snapping. She crossed herself, made a series of scary hex-like gestures, and then spit in my direction.

  Monday and Tuesday, I worked in the diner. My road-trip adventure lingered so strongly in my mind that I could not bring myself to deviate from my routine for fear of losing even a minute’s worth of my remaining life.

  I wondered how many people in my position, those granted a week to chew through items on their bucket list, would have chosen to spend their last moments doing what they had always done. Call it fear of living, maybe, since I hadn’t really focused on adventure back when I thought I had all the time in the world. Or maybe I was simply clinging to the structure that made me feel safe.

  Wearing my apron like a crown of thorns, I cooked burgers and fries, bacon, steak, and eggs, and convinced myself that Wednesday would never arrive.

  Then, God damn it, Wednesday came.

  I got to the diner at my usual 6:00 am, and Cliff was waiting by the door.

  I smiled, before and after I looked him up and down. “Morning, counsellor.”

  “How are you?”

  “Alive. You?”

  “Same.” He smiled back at me, like he knew what gutter my mind had been lying in. Or maybe he had followed my gaze and figured he was about to get lucky.

  I shivered.

  In anticipation.

  Doing the math in my head, I figured I could spare a good fifteen minutes with him in the back office and still have the grill fired up for my early regulars.

  He grabbed a menu and chose his usual booth near the door. As I headed to the back to wake the kitchen, I yelled over my shoulder, “Be right with you.”

  “Take your time.”

  I haven’t much left. I turned back to look at him, truly notice him. He was much more handsome now than he had been as a teenager, especially since he grew a beard. More distinguished, as though being a professional had made him a better person. Maybe it had. How did I miss it? Where had I been?

  I winked and wiggled my hips a little, then sauntered through the swinging door, hoping Cliff might get the hint.

  With one hand reaching for my apron, I caught sight of Death, sitting on my prep counter.

  My heart skipped. I grabbed at my chest.

  “You don’t have time for Cliff.” He paused, and added, “Or to take his order.”

  “I thought I had until eleven?”

  Death reached into his trench coat and pulled out a small, black, leather-bound notebook. After flipping to the spot where the cloth marker held the page, he simply said, “No.”

  I sagged onto the stool I kept near the kitchen phone. “One last fling?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a kiss? A good, solid kiss can be even better than the actual carnal act?”

  He ran his long, cold fingers down the open page in his notebook and shook his head.

  Wondering what kinds of notes Death kept, I leaned in closer to have a look. My eyes began to water, as though they knew better than to allow me the chance to screw this pooch, or Cliff for that matter.

  “Cliff!” I shouted through the order window. “I need you in the kitchen.”

  Without reacting to my cry for help, and without so much as a glance in my direction, Death opened the big walk-in fridge and stepped inside.

  “Just a sec, Lizzie.” Cliff called from the diner, sounding like a cross between confused and worried.

  Death exited the fridge, carrying a full flat of eggs.

  “Someone’s hungry,” I muttered under my breath.

  The big guy held the flat with his left hand, balancing it like a pro, and with his right, he tipped his fedora at me. Then he dropped the eggs. All thirty of them splattered all over my floor. Everyone who’s worked in a kitchen despises that sound.

  Cliff’s footsteps echoed on the tile. He was about to walk through the swinging door and flash me his handsome smile. All I wanted was to tell Death to come back tomorrow, or even in an hour, and give me one last chance to live instead of merely existing.

  I didn’t watch where I was stepping.

  My shoe found the eggs and I flew through the air. My head hit the corner of the prep counter with a sickening crack-thud.

  I closed my eyes tight against the pain because we all know that stuff hurts less when we can’t see it. Funny thing about pain. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, that I couldn’t take any more, that I was going to black out and it might be like falling asleep, and maybe I could see my mother again, and she would hug me, and I wouldn’t even mention that time she borrowed my car and brought it back with a scratch on the driver’s door, the pain intensified.

  “Oh my God, Lizzie!”

  Cliff was close. He sounded like he was in his own kind of despair. I wanted to look up to see if he was standing over me, staring with longing as though he was anticipating a morning romp, too, but I couldn’t open my eyes.

  He shouted into a phone. Ordered paramedics.

  My eyes still wouldn’t open. My skull felt as though it was on fire. I was in a kitchen, so maybe fire was involved.

  Cliff’s lips found mine. I tried to kiss him back, savor the moment, but he was pressing down, pushing air into me. Into my lungs.
/>   No! I thought. We’re supposed to kiss.

  Then the smell blindsided me.

  Not attics and lanolin, not motor oil and old tires. This time, Death stunk of the job, of sewage, rot, and decomposing bodies. He must have been right next to Cliff, trying to figure out whether or not I had stopped breathing so he could get on with his work day. Judging from Cliff’s continued attempts to keep me alive, I guessed the good lawyer didn’t realize Death was in the room.

  Or maybe he did.

  When Cliff switched from blowing air into my lungs to pumping my chest, I used the air he’d gifted me to say, “You’re … good…”

  I needed another breath, if for no other reason than to scream out in pain, but Cliff was still pumping and counting to fifteen.

  “Lizzie,” Death whispered in my ear, full of comfort and pleasure, “open your eyes.”

  The pain ends. Blissful, joyous, fantabulous cessation of the crushed-skull-misery. I take in a breath. It doesn’t feel the same, as though my lungs aren’t part of the oxygen-equation any longer. Afraid to see what has happened to me, I slowly open my eyes.

  Death stands over me, holding a set of car keys. Not mine, though. This set is the old-fashioned metal kind, no beeping car alarms or plastic fobs or computer chip technology in sight.

  “Where’s Cliff?” I say. Looking around, I’m not in the diner. I’m lying on the pavement beside a red 1967 Mustang convertible.

  “I guess I earned a ticket on the up-elevator, huh?” I say.

  “The car is merely a means of transportation.”

  I shake my head. “A 67 Stang is a hell of a lot more than a means of transportation.”

  He jingles the keys. “You’d best get going.”

  “Can I choose the destination?” I ask.

  “It’s your funeral.”

  A snort escapes me, right out my nose. For a moment, I wonder if Cliff saw my ungraceful reaction. Then I remember where I am. What I am. And sadness fills my insides.

  He places the keys in my palm. I stare at them, then up at him, and ask, “How do I find my family?”