by Ann Aguirre
When I first met Ash she’d moved into a place a few houses down, and even though she’d only been there two weeks, she always had someone to play with. I’d lived in that neighborhood for most my life, yet I usually had to be both Batman and the Joker. There never seemed to be anyone around to fill the other parts. I didn’t mind—I was used to it, really—but it was always kind of hard to capture myself and beat myself up all while I was doing the Joker’s evil monologues.
One day I looked up from my new Batmobile toy, and there she was. The sun was behind her, so all I could see were inky pigtails and freckles.
“What do you got?” she asked.
“Batmobile,” I said.
“Well, duh. I meant what one? That one looks different from mine.”
“Oh.” Even at six I was old enough to know that “different” was bad. “I don’t know,” I said. “One of the old ones, I guess. My mom found it at a yard sale.”
“Cool,” she said. “We should build a Batcave.”
After that, I always had someone to play the Joker. At least, until she died from cancer four years later. I put all my Batman toys in a box after that and shoved the box under my bed, and that’s where they stayed until she started showing up again a few years ago. Then I began to find Batman under my pillow, Batman in my underwear drawer, and—my own personal favorite—Batman and Joker in compromising positions in the Batmobile. I found that one a little disturbing. Mostly because the last time I’d seen my Batmobile it had been in Ash’s coffin.
I let my car warm up for a few minutes. I sat huddled in my sweatshirt, hunched over the steering wheel, doing my best to collapse in on myself for warmth. Ash breathed on the windows and drew little stars in the fog. I wished I could ignore the elements like she could, but then I suppose she’d paid the price for her little benefits.
“Can we go now?” she asked.
“You’re not working tonight, are you?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Would it matter if I was?”
I released the brake and backed out of the driveway.
Ash, or Death as some probably called her, pushed open the door to the diner, her saddle shoes making clacking noises on the floor, her pigtails bobbing with her excited movements. Okay, Ash wasn’t Death-death, but she was as close to it as I had come. Still, I’ve always wondered whether people are surprised when they see her instead of the traditional Death with the scythe. Are they disappointed? Relieved? I looked around at the people in the diner: some travelers, a random trucker, a couple groups of kids in all black, a rowdy group who’d obviously come from a bar, and a handful of couples out for a late meal. Did they know, on some level, that my Catholic-schoolgirl-looking companion was a harbinger of death? Nobody screamed and pointed, so I guess not.
We pressed ourselves into a booth, the vinyl making a slick sliding noise as we moved to the end. I wasn’t that hungry, so I just got coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie, even though I felt that, given the circumstances, a meringue was just too cheery. There is something almost optimistic about a slice of lemon meringue pie. I’m not sure why. Is it the bright yellow or the fluffy white topping? But I didn’t trust the cherry pie, and bread pudding just freaks me out because I can’t imagine bread as a part of a dessert, so I had to go with the lemon. Ash ordered waffles with whipped cream and strawberries, with a side of chili cheese fries. I’d blame the odd mix on her being dead, but she’d eaten like this when she was alive.
“Hey, Ash?”
“Yes?” She didn’t look up from the creamers she was building into a pyramid.
“I know you can’t really tell me, you know, about your job, but are people ever let down by you? I mean, because they don’t get actual Death killing them?”
Ash looked up from her creamer stack. “I don’t kill anyone, Matt. Heart attacks, old age, an unchewed hot dog—those things kill people. I’m just their guide.”
“Sorry.”
“Sometimes. I mean, most people are relieved to see me. Death is scary, and I’m not very intimidating. On the other hand, sometimes it takes people longer to believe that they’re dead because of it. Some people don’t care. Others have such a fixed idea—they expect the bright light and the tunnel, or pearly gates and a cloud, and I don’t look like either of those things.”
The waitress dropped off my coffee, and I stole the top of Ash’s pyramid for my cup. I stirred slowly, watching the white of the creamer take the edge off the darkness.
“So, no pearly gates, huh?”
She smiled and put her chin in her hands. “I didn’t say that. I just said they weren’t expecting to see me first.”
“You don’t find it depressing? Being Death?”
“I already told you, I’m not Death.”
“Fine, a psychopomp then.”
“Actually, we’re generally called Harbingers now. Most people don’t even know what a psychopomp is, so management called a meeting and changed our titles.”
“Wow, even when you’re dead they have boring meetings. Good to know.”
The waitress brought out our orders, but they were out of the strawberries so Ash had to eat her waffle plain. The frazzled-looking waitress seemed apologetic, so Ash accepted her food with a “that’s all right” and a “thanks.”
We talked for a few minutes about nothing really: movies, books, whatever. It didn’t matter what we chatted about, it felt good to have someone to talk to. Ash had only gotten about a fourth of the way through her fries and one bite of her waffle when she jumped a little in her seat. I hadn’t even started my pie. I’d been too busy talking. Chances for me to have conversations were rare.
Ash pulled out a BlackBerry and started typing away on it. She sighed.
“You have to go, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry, Matt.” She looked down regretfully at her food. “She’s early.” She gave another heavy sigh. “I didn’t even get to finish my waffles.”
“Where do you have to go?” I asked.
She didn’t look up.
“It’s here?” Leave it to Ash to be pragmatic, even in choosing her waffle joints.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t think—”
“Can I come with you?”
She blinked at me, surprised, I think.
I knew, theoretically, what she did, but I had never seen it. I wasn’t sure I was allowed, and I’d never had interest in accompanying her before. In fact, I’d always been slightly repulsed by the idea. No, not repulsed, scared. I’d like to say I was trying to face my fear, but in reality I think I just wanted to stay with her a little longer. Or maybe I couldn’t handle that Ash had a separate life I’d never seen. I felt a little guilty when I realized that, if our places had been switched, she would have asked much sooner than I had.
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “You can come.” She rubbed her mouth and chin with her hand, an adult gesture that sat weird on her. “For the collection anyway. I can’t take you where I’m going.”
“Okay.”
We both slid out of the booth. I waited for a second while Ash finished typing something on her BlackBerry. Then she flipped it shut and I followed her back to the bathroom. She walked right into the ladies’ room, the yellow door swinging behind her. I paused for a second, a built-in hesitation about entering the girls’ bathroom. Then I went in.
The room continued the overly cheery yellow of the door. The walls were yellow, the counters were made of a yellow tile, and the stalls were yellow. Only the sinks, floor, and ceiling were white. I once heard that yellow was a color of aggression and that restaurants only used it so that people wouldn’t linger. I guess the diner didn’t want people to hang out in their bathroom.
Ash was at the back by the third stall, waiting for me. Once I caught up, she knocked on the door.
“Marjorie?” she asked.
“Yes?” came a muffled reply.
“Marjorie Anne Clausen, wife of Harold, mother of Todd and Judy?”
“Yes, but ho
w did you know that?”
Ash didn’t answer but continued. “Marjorie Clausen of Thirteen Forty-Two West Highland?”
“Why, yes. Do I know you?”
“No, ma’am,” Ash said, “you don’t.”
She gently pushed the door open and revealed Marjorie sitting on the floor. It was the same frazzled waitress who’d served us a few minutes ago. She had slouched to the floor but looked exactly the same as earlier except for a few smudges and wrinkles on her uniform. She brightened when she saw Ash.
“Oh, it’s you, dear. The waffles.” She smiled, revealing a few off-white teeth.
Ash nodded. “It’s time to go, Marjorie.”
“Call me Marge, please. And go where? I’m right in the middle of a double shift.”
“Not anymore you’re not,” Ash said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate it when they don’t know.” She squatted down so she could look into Marge’s eyes. “You know that heart arrhythmia the doctor told you not to worry about?”
Marge nodded, a confused look on her face.
“Well, you should have worried.”
“But he said it was just stress,” she said.
Ash shrugged. “Not to be insensitive, Marge, but you should have gotten a second opinion.” She held out her hand. “You need to come with me.”
Marge squinted at her hand but didn’t take it. “I don’t think I like you. I’ve changed my mind; you don’t get to call me Marge.”
Ash didn’t answer. She just continued to hold out her hand, like a mother waiting patiently for a child to stop throwing a tantrum. Which seemed weird, since Ash looked like she was ten and Marjorie had to be in her upper forties.
Marjorie still wasn’t taking her hand. “You’re too rude to be an angel.” She folded her arms and looked away. “I’m not dead. I feel fine, great even. This is just a stupid prank.” She looked back at Ash suspiciously. “Did the cook put you up to this?”
Ash took back her hand and stood up. “I’m not an angel, Mrs. Clausen, nor am I a devil. I’m just a Harbinger. I simply take your soul on to the next step. That’s all. And of course you feel fine. You don’t carry aching joints and sore muscles into the afterlife.”
“That’s what a devil would say to trick me.”
I had been feeling bad for Marjorie, but I didn’t like anyone giving Ash a hard time. I started to get ticked off.
Ash put her hands on her hips. Through gritted teeth she said, “I’m just one of Death’s assistants. I promise you that I’m a neutral party, Mrs. Clausen.”
“Death. Right.” Mrs. Clausen looked over at me. “And who’s he, the Muffin Man? Santa?”
I cleared my throat. “I’m Batman.”
Ash threw me a dirty look, and I just shrugged at her. It was all I could think of.
“He’s an intern,” Ash said.
That seemed like a much better answer. Book smart I’d always been, but Ash was quicker on her feet.
“I refuse to go with an intern,” Marjorie said with a sniff. “I’ve been a good Christian woman my whole life. I want an angel, or I’m not going.”
“Fine,” Ash said, “kicking and screaming it is, then.”
I edged along the wall to the left. I’d heard Ash’s angry tone before, and that was it. I didn’t know what was going to happen, but I knew that a small buffer zone would be a good idea.
Darkness swirled around them, blocking out most of the cheery yellow of the bathroom. A vortex opened in the ceiling and a flock of swallows flew out. They perched on the stall doors and looked down on Marjorie Clausen.
Marjorie slapped the stall with the flat of her hand. “Shoo!” she said. She glared at Ash. “That’s a health code violation, missy.”
Ash stamped her foot and another portal opened, this time behind Mrs. Clausen where the back of the stall had been. Out of the darkness, a few shapes materialized. Three cats came out of the shadows: a Siamese, a white Persian, and a fat orange tabby. The Persian circled around and pounced on Mrs. Clausen, knocking her back so she lay half in and half out of the portal. The orange tabby sauntered forward and sat on Mrs. Clausen’s chest.
“Oh. Hi, kitty,” she said, scratching the orange tabby tentatively behind the ears. The other two leaned down and grabbed Mrs. Clausen’s uniform at each shoulder with their teeth and began to slowly drag her away. Or part of her anyway. Marjorie’s body stayed put on the floor while the cats pulled her soul into the portal. I think it was her soul. I’d have to ask Ash if management had another term for it. Mrs. Clausen looked back at both of the cats, startled. She began to yell. The cats, being cats, ignored her in that complete way only cats seem to be able to manage, and continued to drag her soul into the darkness. After Mrs. Clausen’s ghostly white shoes vanished, the portal shut.
Ash’s tense stance relaxed. “I hate it when they do that.” She turned to me. “I have to go after her. See you later?”
I looked at the birds. The swallows returned a glassy black stare. I hate birds. “You’re going to take them with you, right?”
For some reason Ash threw herself at me and grabbed me in a big hug. I slipped my arms out of her grasp, since it was awkward being pinned by a little girl, and wrapped them around her shoulders. She went up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.
“What was that for?”
Ash leaned out of the hug and smiled at me, even though her eyes looked like she was about to cry.
“For never making me feel like a freak,” she said. She turned and held out her arms. The swallows flew down, grabbed bits of her clothing in their beaks, and pulled her off the ground. The birds flapped madly one second and then an instant later, they were gone, taking Ash with them.
I was left alone in the suddenly empty girls’ bathroom. A girl entered, one of the goth kids I’d seen earlier. All the black eyeliner she used didn’t darken her bright blond looks.
“Sorry,” she said, and she looked back at the door. She frowned at the woman symbol.
“Me too,” I said, and I walked past her.
I slid back into our booth. My pie was still there. For some reason, it seemed like that shouldn’t be. Hadn’t I been gone a long time? I felt like a death should resonate, like the whole diner should have felt it. The pie should have crumbled into dust by now. People should be somber. But the goth kids still laughed over their coffee, the drunks were still drunk, and my pie refused to mourn.
The goth girl came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. She looked the same, so I assumed she hadn’t looked in the last stall. If she had, she was handling it very well.
I grabbed my fork and slowly finished my pie. I don’t like to waste things, and it seemed to make just as much sense to sit there and eat in silence as it did to go home and sit in silence. If you’re going to think and be depressed, you might as well do it with pie, right?
I paid at the register, leaving a tip on the table. Would it end up with Marjorie’s family, or would the staff split it, deciding they’d earned it in her stead? On my way out I overheard one of the other servers asking where Marjorie had gotten off to. I quickened my step, hoping to get to my car before they started looking.
* * *
The next day I drove my battered Toyota to Highland and stopped in front of a white house with blue trim and a hand-painted sign that read THE CLAUSEN FAMILY next to the mailbox. I parked across the street and watched for a while. I’m not sure why.
A green SUV pulled into the Clausens’ driveway. A young woman, tall and slender, got out carrying a foil-covered dish. Her brown hair was loose and a little messy from the drive, but she didn’t bother to straighten it. Instead she knocked immediately on the Clausens’ door. If a knock could sound worried and heartfelt, then that’s what the woman’s knock would have been. I wished briefly for someone to arrive on my doorstep that way, but felt instantly guilty for it. I wasn’t the one on the block with the fresh hurt. Mr. Clausen deserved this visitor, not me.
A man answered. I assumed the man was H
arold Clausen. He hugged the woman and took the dish. Harold was balding and fat but in a robust way. The hug looked stiff, like he wasn’t used to public displays of affection, but he did it anyway. They went inside.
Through the window I could see Harold sitting at a table and talking to the young woman. A china hutch stood behind them, covered in floral arrangements and framed photographs. An altar to the Clausen family.
Two kids came out of one of the doorways. The girl looked like she might be at the age where My Little Pony toys were still cool, but the boy looked preteen, spiky haired and a little angst ridden, but still shiny under the bitter layer. He wasn’t old enough yet to have lost the hope and innocence of youth. Since they both looked like Harold and Marjorie squashed together, I guessed these were Todd and Judy. They seemed sad, their faces pinched and drawn, but they mustered up a hug and smile for the young lady. Even their mother’s death couldn’t dampen their obvious joy in seeing her.
Harold got them all sodas and a plate of cookies that were probably brought over by another visitor. They sat and talked, the lady smiling and touching cheeks, shoulders, hands, like she was trying to let her joy rub off on them. Judy even laughed a few times.
Todd never got further than a smile, but it appeared less forced after a while. When Harold started to cry, the kids and the woman immediately closed in around him, making a tight knot of affection. I felt more instant guilt when I realized I was jealous of a widower and his family.
I started my car and drove back to my house. There was nothing for me to see there. I’d seen the process before, anyway. So I drove home and wondered why people always bring food to mourners. When Ash died, the last thing I wanted was a chicken casserole.
Ashley didn’t die fast like Mrs. Clausen, but she didn’t take months either. She got sick and withered away. You could measure the time from the first symptom to the grave in weeks. At the time, it felt like forever to me, and also too fast. I sat by her bedside whenever they let me. My mom wasn’t the type to worry about me catching things, and lymphoma isn’t contagious anyway.
