Pandora's Closet

by Martin Harry Greenberg

  “I’m glad somebody thinks so.”

  She gives me one of her penetrating looks, the same one she used to give me as a child when she knew I was hiding something. Back then I could withstand about ten seconds before telling her everything I knew. Age has granted me the ability to last twenty.

  “I never asked to be a widow at twenty-five. I didn’t sign up for this.”

  “Actually, you did. It’s called a marriage license.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I ask, angry.

  “Yours, but there aren’t any guarantees in life. You should consider yourself lucky because you’ve learned that lesson early.” She takes a breath and leans back in her chair. “I didn’t pull you out of bed to make you upset.”

  “Yeah? Could have fooled me.” I say.

  “I wanted to give you these.” Grandmother fishes a red velvet box from her purse and places it on the table between us.

  I uncross my arms and open the box. Inside is a pair of topaz-and-diamond chandelier earrings. The stones are flawless, their facets catching the sunlight and sending rainbows onto the tablecloth. “They’re beautiful,” I whisper. I brush my fingers over them lightly and find them warm to the touch.

  “They were given to me by Fred’s mother, after he died.”

  I look at her, startled. I had forgotten that she was a young widow, too. She is looking at the earrings, but the smile on her face and the far-away look in her eyes tells me she is seeing something else. I close the box with a snap and place it back on the table. “I can’t accept these. They’re special to you.”

  She comes back to the present and smiles at me. “They’ll be yours one day anyway, you know.”

  “That’s beside the point,” I say. I cannot think of my grandmother dying, not yet. “I’ve nowhere to wear them.”

  “Nonsense. You could wear these to the grocery store, provided you have the right shoes.”

  “Grandmother-”

  “Tell you what. We’ll call them a loan. When you don’t need them anymore, you can give them back.”

  I can see there’s no use in arguing. “You’ll have them back next week,” I say as the food arrives.

  “I’ll think you’ll be surprised,” she says as she places her napkin on her lap and gives me a wink.

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I say as I pull on an embroidered velvet shirt and grab a pair of jeans from the cluttered closet.

  “You need to get out of this apartment, Anne. It isn’t healthy,” my friend Pandora says.

  “I get out.” I try to keep the defensiveness from my voice without much success.

  “Yeah? When’s the last time you bought groceries? Or shoes? That’s what I thought,” she says when I don’t answer. She begins to pick through my jewelry box, and I am reminded of the first time she did that. We were thirteen, and my collection had consisted of rings that turned my fingers green and a single gold cross necklace. She had been appalled at my lack of style. Not much has changed.

  “Just because I haven’t bought anything doesn’t mean I haven’t left this place.”

  “Whatever. At least you’re getting out now. Today. With me. This movie we’re going to is supposed to be pretty good. That’s what Brad said, anyway.”

  “Since when have you listened to your brother?”

  “Since he started having good taste. Ooohh, where did you get these?” Pandora holds up the earrings.

  “They’re on loan from Grandmother. She says I can keep them as long as I need to.”

  “You’re definitely going to need these for at least the next five years. They’re gorgeous! Put them on.”

  “Panda! I’m wearing jeans.”

  She rolls her eyes. “So wear a pair of heels. Jesus, this isn’t rocket science. Put ’em on.”

  I give her a look and take the earrings from her. She rummages through my closet while I struggle with the old-fashioned screw-posts.

  “You’ve got too much shit in here,” Pandora says as she tosses a handful of Tad’s shirts to the floor.

  “Watch it,” I say, my voice sharp.

  “You’d have more room if you got rid of his things. It’s not like he’s gonna use them.” Her soft tone dissolves my anger.

  “I know. But seeing his things reminds me that he was here, once.”

  “I’d think seeing his things would remind you he’s dead.”

  I sigh. “Yeah.” I finish fastening the left earring and wipe my face. The amber stones against my skin makes my complexion less sallow, my dark circles less noticeable. They are surprisingly light, and they warm my earlobes. I shake my head to feel their pendulum-like weight.

  “Life’s a bitch, huh? Wowza,” Pandora says as she takes in my appearance. “You look hot. Here, wear these.” She hands me a pair of jeweled heels.

  I suddenly feel too alive to object.

  We are in the darkened theater when I hear it. I am enjoying the movie, laughing at an absurd scene, and I am thinking that Tad would enjoy this, too.

  You’re right, I am enjoying it.

  I stop and look around, catching a faint scent of licorice. “Did you hear that?” I whisper to Pandora.

  “Hear what?” she whispers back, wiping tears from her eyes. I am jealous, because the last time I laughed so hard that I cried I was laughing with Tad.

  Cut the shit. You were laughing at me that time.

  “That! Did you hear it?”

  “No,” she says, watching the screen. Laughter erupts through the crowd again, and Pandora joins the cackles.

  I sit back and pretend to watch to rest of the movie.

  Afterward, I resist Pandora’s insistence that we get a martini. Being social has exhausted me, and once I get to my apartment, I shed my clothes and fall into bed. I roll onto my side and an earring pokes behind my ear, reminding me I am not completely undressed. Grimacing, I sit up and begin to unscrew the post.

  Don’t.

  I freeze, hold my breath, and listen hard. I only hear my pulse in my ears. Licking my lips, I whisper, “Tad?”

  Yeah. I just want you to hear me for a little longer. Please. Don’t take the earrings off.

  Gooseflesh covers my body, and I smell licorice again. “Am I going insane?” I am afraid to speak above a whisper.

  Tad snorts. You’ve always been insane. Why should you be any different now?

  “Not possible. It can’t be you. You can’t prove…”

  As to proving it’s me… I have been dead two months. The last food I ate was leftover cake from Susan’s wedding, and the last drink I had was a shot of Jaeger. The last time we-

  “Stop,” I say as I begin to cry. “But that’s not proof. Tell me something else.”

  Silence stretches out so long, and I am about to pull the covers over me when the voice comes again.

  On my side of the closet there’s a shoebox on the top shelf, way back in the corner. Inside is a bracelet I bought you for your birthday.

  I push the covers off, whip open the closet door and pull down stacks of neatly folded sweaters. Finding the shoebox, I rip the lid off and pull out a square velvet box. Inside is a delicate gold band with a single ruby set in the center. Slipping it over my wrist, I say, “It’s beautiful.”

  Tad buying a gift four months in advance of my birthday is-was-so typical of him.

  “It’s the earrings, isn’t it?”

  Isn’t what?

  “The earrings. That’s why I can hear you.”

  He doesn’t answer, but I know then that I will never give these earrings back.

  “What’s it like to be dead?” I ask.

  Can’t tell you.

  “What do you mean, you can’t tell me? Is it that hard to describe?

  Oh, no, it’s not that. I mean it’s a rule. I had to sign papers and everything.

  “They made you sign a contract?” I laugh. Having a conversation about the afterlife with my dead husband is just absurd enough so that believing the dead have contractual obliga
tions is easy. “Did they notarize it, too?”

  I’ve already said too much. Listen, do me a favor.

  “Anything.”

  It’s time you donated my things. I’m dead, remember? Don’t think I’m gonna need that Cubs hat anymore.

  The irony strikes me and I laugh. Tad is pragmatic even when he’s dead.

  “Tomorrow,” I promise.

  What’s wrong with tonight?

  “What’s right with tonight?” I say too quickly.

  Anne. You will never get over my death when you have reminders of my life slapping you in the face everywhere in the apartment.

  “ ‘Get over’ you? One doesn’t ‘get over’ a spouse’s death in sixty days,” I say.

  You’ll end up like that batty old woman down the block.

  “What have you got against Mrs. Neadlebeck? For all we know, the CIA did murder her husband.”

  When I was alive you thought she was creepy, too.

  “When you were alive… I… oh, fuck you,” I say. All of a sudden I’m so angry I can’t breath. “Sometimes you’re just so impossible, Tad! Did you come back from the afterlife just to piss me off? Well, you succeeded.” I regret the words as soon as I say them, but I am too stubborn to apologize.

  First off, Tad says, and I can hear the smile in his words, I didn’t “come back.” I’ve been here all along. And second, I’ll piss you off if that’s what it takes.

  “Takes to do what?” My curiosity takes the edge from my anger.

  Remember when my boss at work died? The bald guy everyone hated?

  “Ye-e-e-ah.” I know where he is going with this, and I don’t want to hear it.

  Everyone I worked with thought he was an incompetent, selfish, small man. But if you were at the funeral and didn’t know better, you’d have thought he was the most beloved man at the company. His eulogies made him out to be this big philanthropist.

  I smile at Tad’s vocabulary. “Human, even.”

  Right. And remember how I made you promise not to do that? That, if I died, I wanted you to be honest about who I was?

  “Yeah.”

  I still want that. Don’t make me a martyr, Anne. Don’t be a martyr yourself. There’s plenty you didn’t like about me.

  “Like what?”

  Like how I used to eat rare beef. Or how I used to ignore the dirty dishes in the sink when it was my turn. Or how I used to fart in my sleep.

  “That was actually kind of funny,” I say. “I didn’t mind it as much as I let on.”

  I’m so glad you finally told me.

  His sarcasm makes me chuckle.

  Sobering, I say, “But what if I forget the good things? What if I throw out your hats and I forget how insane you got during baseball season? What if I throw out your ties and I forget you liked stripes? What if I throw out your cologne and I forget how you smelled?”

  You won’t. My dad died when I was five, and I still remember him helping me break in my first ball glove. The baby oil smell, the rubber band around the ball and the glove, him showing me where to crease it-all of it is right there. If I close my eyes, I can still hear him laughing when I caught my first ball with it. I can remember how the ball just fell into the spot I’d made for it, like he said it would. You can’t forget me. I’ve marked up your heart too much.

  “But how can I be sure?” I don’t realize I’m crying until I hear my creaky voice.

  You’ll just have to trust me.

  These are the exact same words he said to me after he proposed. I had asked how he could be sure he would love me in fifty years. He said I’d have to trust him. And I did, completely. I am pleased to find that I still do.

  Should we start with the kitchen or the closet?

  “The kitchen, I think,” I say. While I would not say I am happy, my smile doesn’t feel forced. “I’ve always hated those dishes you bought.”

  “You’re in good spirits,” Pandora says as she peers into her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Am I?” I am on my knees, scrubbing the bathtub. This was Tad’s job, one of many I’ve taken over since he’s passed. Perhaps I am not resentful because I can hear him snickering about Panda’s outfit in my ear.

  “Yeah. I would have thought cleaning out Tad’s stuff would have made you sad. What did you keep?”

  “Nothing,” I say, tackling a stubborn patch of soap scum.

  “Nothing?” she says, not believing it. “Not one single thing?”

  “Give me some credit. I kept a few things, but most of it’s gone.” Why do I need his things when I can talk to him anytime I want to? “I don’t need constant reminders of what I lost to remember what I had.” My earlobes tingle, and I know that Tad agrees.

  Pandora squints at me. “Have you seen a therapist without telling me?”

  “No.” Unless you count talking with spirits as therapy. “Why do you ask?”

  “You just seem so healthy. It’s disturbing. Next you’ll tell me you’ve gone vegetarian.”

  “That’s going a bit far.”

  “And you’ve finally been converted. Wearing that bracelet to clean the tub is so right it’s almost wrong.”

  “Good thing I’m done,” I say as I splash rinse water around the porcelain. “Wanna go grab a drink? My treat.”

  “That’s my girl,” Pandora says.

  I do not realize until I change my clothes that Grandmother’s earrings are on my bureau and not my ears.

  “You’re finished with them? Are you sure?” Grandmother says, her eyes trying to read my face.

  “I’ve never been surer of anything. I don’t need jewelry to feel Tad beside me.” I place the box on the table between us and dig into my fruit salad.

  “You’ll be surprised how long they stick around,” she says, casually. “Between Fred and George and Ray, I’m never alone. Sometimes I wonder if they take shifts or if they’re all there at once, bumping into each other and cursing.”

  I laugh at the picture her words make in my mind. “You could wear the earrings and ask them.”

  “I could,” she agrees, “but that would be intruding.”

  “Is that so different from what the dead do to us?”

  “I’d like to think it is,” she says, smiling. As she slips the earrings into her purse, I think I see one of her dead husbands beside her. I blink, and the moment and the image are gone.

  A CLEAN GETAWAY by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “Watch where you step!’ Lieutenant Danthres Tresyllione was already in a bad mood when she arrived at the house in Unicorn Precinct, and finding herself being yelled at by one of the guards did not improve it. Looking down, she saw that the floor of the house was covered in some kind of dark muck.

  Her superiors were generally amenable to paying for a Cleaning Spell to get blood stains out of her boots and earth-colored cloak. This whatever-it-was, on the other hand, would be a harder sell, and Danthres was in no mood to fight that particular battle with whatever functionary in the Lord and Lady’s court oversaw the appropriations for such things.

  “I’ll stay out here, then,” she said, stopping in the threshold.

  “Not a problem,” said a familiar voice from inside. It was her partner, Lieutenant Torin ban Wyvald. “I’ve already been soiled, so I’ll provide the gory details.”

  Danthres peered inside to see a large sitting room that would have been considered fancy and high-class but for the fact that it was covered in a truly impressive amount of dirt and grime and muck. Tramping around in it were the guard who had cautioned her to step lightly-whom she recognized as Manfred, one of the few grunts in the Cliff’s End Castle Guard who had anything approaching a brain-and Torin. Hovering about a hand’s-length above the floor was the M.E., Boneen. Typically, the magical examiner refused to degrade himself, so he used his wizardly abilities to levitate; just as typically, the cranky old bastard didn’t offer the same courtesy to the others.

  “I’m surprised to see you here already, Boneen,” Danthres said. “I
t usually requires a team of dragons to get you to a crime scene with any dispatch.”

  Glaring witheringly at Danthres from his position over the floor, Boneen said, “Does it disturb you, Tresyllione, to make so many attempts at wit and yet fall short of the mark?”

  “Not in the least.” Danthres turned to Torin. “So what happened?”

  Torin cleared his throat before speaking. “This house is owned by the Jaros family. The actual owner is the family patriarch, Millar Jaros, and his son, daughter-in-law, and four grandchildren all live here as well. This morning the daughter-in-law, Abbi, came downstairs to prepare breakfast, and discovered this.”

  While Torin was talking, Danthres had been looking at the muck and noticing something. “All right, this is odd-there’s a pattern to the gunk. Like it all exploded outward.” She’d seen similar patterns in blood when someone was struck with a heavy object, especially in the head, but it wasn’t something she ever expected to see with dirt.

  “Yes, it did.” Torin was now pointing at a closet door. “It seems to have come out from there.”

  Crankily, Boneen said, “No ‘seems’ about it. I did the peel-back, and it showed this garbage literally explode outward from the closet.” On loan from the Brotherhood of Wizards, the magical examiner’s primary purpose was to cast an Inanimate Residue Spell, commonly called a “peel-back,” which allowed him to see what recently happened in a particular place. “And once I did that, I had this young man call you two in.”

  That, at least, explained why Boneen’s arrival preceded theirs. She looked at Manfred. “You summoned the M.E., Manfred?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The guard sounded pleased that she remembered his name. “And he had me bring you in, like he said, ma’am.”

  Danthres’s mood grew darker by the second. “Pardon me, Boneen, but I was under the impression that the function of lieutenants in the Castle Guard like myself and Torin was to investigate crimes that occur within the Lord and Lady’s demesne.”

  “What are you driving at, Tresyllione?”

  Angrily, Danthres said, “What I’m driving at is that what I see here is an accident, not a crime-unless there’s a dead body I’m missing under all this?”