The coffin was closed.
Duh, silly. He’d burned up.
Why didn’t they cremate what was left? She’d heard it was a lot cheaper, back when Lysie’s dad died of cancer.
She’d also heard that some Christian groups believed that if a person was cremated, they couldn’t go to Heaven. When the Rapture came, there wouldn’t be a body left for God to call in the en masse floating up to heaven. Supposedly this was why the ancient Romans made sure Christian martyrs were totally totaled.
She eyed her watch again. Not even his parents were here. Did you ever see anything so sad?
Rosie supposed her friends would say it proved what a loser Chaz was. Why even Swallow—Marty—wasn’t here. But his grandfather just suffered a massive heart attack, right?
Eventually she timidly cried, “Is there even a minister here?”
Nothing but an echo.
Frustrated, she went to the wreath to find out who’d been the one to do even this. It actually wasn’t that bad. Probably something phoned in and from a limited budget. It must be from the Chisholms.
The accompanying note read:
“I’ll miss ya, Jazzman, wherever you fly.
Forgive me for not being there.
Still on that short leash, grounded, new underwear.
And with strange eons, even Death may die.
Marty Hardisty”
Rosie tried opening the casket lid. Even if Chaz was complete bacon, she’d bestow a kiss on his forehead… if she could find it.
The coffin was sealed. She felt so awkward. Still no one else had arrived.
“Chaz,” she whispered. “This is Rosie. I’m so sorry. I’ll never be able to say how much. Some people were born to lose—I guess that’s you. Some were born to be rotten bitches—that’s me. I apologize from the bottom of my heart… if I have one. I suppose you proved to me that I do.”
She balanced on one foot as she lifted up the other, slipping off the gold Rosie-rosebud ring her grandmother had given her. She placed it upon the casket, saying, “From me to you, my single prized possession.”
She heard a sigh and looked up. The pews were now completely full… with nuns. This wasn’t even a Catholic church. Many of the women were very beautiful, others horribly disfigured. All smiled sweetly.
Smoke poured from the coffin, reeking of burning fat and hair. Yet there were no apparent holes and it was sealed.
And where was the ring?
Gone.
When she looked back out across the pews, the nuns were gone. Rosie ran down the aisle and out of the chapel, stopping only when she saw the pen from the guest book on the floor. Against her will her eyes flicked to the guest book itself. It was now opened to the last page. She flipped through it. Every space had been filled and every name began with the title ‘Sister’ save for the final name which was Mother Superior Columbe des Agnes.
She went back to the first page. Her own signature had been scratched out and rewritten next to it was Sister Sophia Rose.
Rosie fled the church, running into the street. Her mother sat in the coffee house window where she must’ve been watching for her.
Mrs. Bunny immediately came outside.
“Are you okay?”
Rosie couldn’t breathe. Her mother helped her get into the van, buckling the seatbelt for her as if she were again a little girl.
“Did a lot of people show up for your friend?”
Mrs. Bunny didn’t know what to think when Rosie burst into nervous laughter.
– | – | –
Chapter 11
Ed Poe saw a billboard above a grassy patch near the freeway. It showed a darkened cubicle and a shadowy man using a telephone cord to strangle a woman from behind. Her eyes were halfway out of her head, tongue sticking out blue as a turquoise lollipop. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, revealing a bare breast. Her panties were yanked around her ankles. The ad red:
Reach Out And Whack Someone.
Dial 1-X-IS-THE-DARK.
“Did you see that?” Ed yelled, trying to do a doubletake without jerking the wheel and hitting some old codger in a lilac caddy. His eyes bulged, sort of like the strangled woman’s.
“What?” Tom asked blandly, glancing from his Styrofoam cup of convenience store zombie-maker. He’d been humming more jazz. Virtually always Monk. This was ‘I Mean You.’
“The billboard!” Ed thumbed behind them. He’d seen strange ads on the roads, but he didn’t see how they could get away with that.
There was no doubting which one he meant, being the only ad on this stretch of highway.
Tom Larson squinted. “For Trammel’s Jewelry?”
“No, a guy strangling… X-IS-THE-DARK…” Ed Poe stammered.
“It was for Trammel’s. Guy’s putting a string of pearls ‘round his wife’s neck,” Tom said, brows doing a curious mating dance above his eyes.
“You sure?”
His partner grinned, coffee steam wilting the ends of his mustache. “You’ve seen too many psychos lately.”
What? A man couldn’t strangle with a string of pearls? Be an expensive garrote, but it’d do the trick if the necklace didn’t pop. Going across the floor as if he’d knocked out each of her oyster white teeth.
The pearls looked more like eggs. Why would a chick wear an egg necklace?
Tom smiled. “Must be nice being kept up nights by a beautiful movie star. Let’s stop and get you some coffee.”
««—»»
“I’m Renae Hawthorne. Welcome to another segment of Gothic Crossroads. About a week ago police were called out to a park to arrest a group of men and women who were sitting naked around a fire, dining on the bodies of rats, baying at the moon. While there was a scuffle and an officer was bitten, it must be pointed out that, from all evidence at hand, it seems the altercation was actually started by the authorities and not by the ferals. Several police were caught on tape striking ferals and using choke holds—without waiting for them to surrender on charges of public nudity and disturbing the peace.
“Today we have representatives from several clubs. The appearance of the social organization commonly called ‘the gang’ has changed quite a bit in our area. What has often formerly been a gathering of otherwise directionless youth—frequently resulting in pursuits of violence—has recently taken on a decidedly esoteric bent. This new collection of associations is detached from more traditional forms of gangs in every visible way. Regalia and identification among members tends toward a self-conscious attachment for shock art or Gothic literature, and a reverence for existential abuse and metamorphosing death. Every indication supports theories that they are non-violent. That is to say, there have been no reports of anyone being attacked or threatened—other than the incident in the park where the ferals felt compelled to protect themselves against unwarranted brutality.
“So, beloved viewers, we’re here with the gang, to investigate and understand the reasons for their emotional and physical transitions into that which the whole city has taken note. Is this the new movement for Goth at its most ethereal and dogmatic? If so, where do we go from here?” The camera panned to the five guests.
Now, Renae, like most Goths, was typically cool in the face of the bizarre. But this time, she had to make a concerted attempt not to show shock or revulsion. What these folks had done to themselves… It went beyond what Renae would’ve thought modern plastic surgery capable of. This was out of sick dream and metaphoric special effect. Yet wasn’t this sort of thing the very specific venue of The Goth Channel? The world had so much shadow in it, its considerable underside really constituted underworld.
“This is Simmy Rare.”
He was a shadow with skin dyed a deep, matte violet. If he moved just so in his seat, he seemed to vanish.
“And next to him is Genevieve Engoulevente.”
She was covered in neatly aligned snippet slices… clearly self-inflicted. And in this flesh crawled colonies of maggots.
“And then we have Michae
l Ether.”
He was a Screamer, jaw wired open, a pad and pencil at hand to write down his answers. His mouth constantly ran saliva trails that glittered silvery in the studio lights.
“Tarynn Pix, next to Michael.”
Tarynn was a catgirl. She’d done it all. Contacts that made her pupils diamond-shaped and her eyes highly reflective. Her nose amputated and a small triangular black facsimile added. When she breathed, she sounded like a cat with a cold. She wore a leotard with slashes across the chest to reveal the cleavage from extra breasts, her ‘mama cat’ nipples, implanted down her abdomen. She also had claws, clattering as she tapped them on the arms of her chair. They actually retracted, then slid back out. One finger oozed blood around its talon, having trouble with its mechanism. She lacked one thing though—the ‘sexy’ usually in classic comics of catwomen.
“And last but not least is Tlatlauhqui. I understand this is the Nahuatl word for ‘red’. Did I pronounce it right?”
He had the strangest permutation of all. A round piece of breastbone had been removed, skin, muscle… everything. It was reminiscent of the act of skull trephination. A glass window had been installed, his heart clearly visible beating beneath.
“Mr. Rare,” Renae returned to the shadow, “have you had difficulties publicly?”
Simmy Rare sat very still and to one side, leaning just out of the circle of illumination. His head seemed to go off into space. Either that or he simply had no head.
The Goth Channel sets weren’t overly bright. Not like other talk show formats where everyone was treated like a deer in the headlights. There were coffee can spotlights providing a central yet muted glow to the clutch of chairs. Darkness surrounded, as if for some twilight zoned group therapy.
Renae waited for him to answer. Without being able to see his face, she’d no idea if he’d mouthed a silent reply or stuck out his tongue.
“Uh… well. Miss Engoulevente. Let’s move on to you. The members in your ‘group’ have ritual cuts. Now, in case the audience is worried that the presence of maggots in the wounds indicates a septic condition, let me assure you that fly larvae have been used for millennia to clean wounds. Still, it is a dramatic statement. Have you had any negative situations arise from your glorification of suffering?”
Genevieve said nothing, sitting on the edge of her seat, staring at the other gang members. Her eyes were sunken, green in pouches. The maggots on her arms moved like ancient blasphemies in Sanskrit performing a conga.
Renae glanced at Lenora who stood off-camera, shrugging and shaking her head. Renae managed a hopeful smile. “Michael Ether? Would you care to comment—or to jot down on your tablet—on this question? Any problems? Perhaps you could inform the audience about the nature of body theater extended way beyond when devotees would simply cover themselves in ornate tattoos. You and your friends have opted to emulate Edvard Munch’s seminal painting on madness and alienation.”
The Screamer drooled and goggle-eyed the others, mouth a wet cavern in perpetual primal shriek. But the sound coming out of that gape wasn’t a gut-wrenching cry, only a liquid snuffling it shamed Renae to admit turned her stomach and made her want to stuff a box of tissues down his throat.
“Miss Pix? Tarynn? What about nihilism, traditional forms of beauty in a world where putrefaction lurks beneath the glowing Barbie veneer… You have opted for a vision of carnality and pseudo-sado-bondage. While in the hospital having your surgery, you wrote to a friend that Sex is a nightmare and the nightmare is how sleep describes us. Care to go further?”
Balefully, the catwoman slit her eyes at the other four guests. Coiled, electric, she hissed.
What was wrong? Renae shot another look offstage. Producer Shedu Kobold paced. She heard him ask Lenora, “Why aren’t they answering?”
The segment had actually been Lenora’s idea.
“I don’t know,” Lenora whispered. “They agreed to do this. They were fine until we brought them onto the set. Granted, before this we kept them in separate rooms…”
Renae let out a long sigh. Then she turned to the final guest on her roster. “Let’s try Tlatlauhqui. Mr. Red, you’ve chosen a very surreal statement. Hallucinatory. All the others come from groups who emulate a single signature style. Your friends have—as I understand it—had surgeries to display different organs. One shows the brain, another the stomach, a third the lower intestine. Why did you choose the heart?”
These people were scary lumps. They watched each other with hatred. There was no communication about wildness, pain and decay. No offbeat yet revealing dialogue—or diatribe. Just spoooooooooky! Renae tasted the tension.
“Now see here…” Shedu errupted off-camera. The silver shrunken-head bells jangled from his waggling eyebrows. “What is this? Waiting to see who bloody blinks first?”
Genevieve moved first. It was casual, a flick of a couple maggots into the Screamer’s mouth. Then Tarynn leaped from her seat, claws slashing toward the shadow who’d butted his purple head into Mr. Red’s window. The Screamer jumped and lifted Tarynn from behind, squeezing as if doing a Heimlich maneuver, but he squeezed so hard that her four breast implants went pop Pop POP POP!
Renae froze in her chair at the melee. Maggots and blood spattered her. She blinked at these things on her dress and skin. She remembered coming home after a drug binge to find her mother’s dismembered body in stages of various insectile occupation.
Her father had cut pictures from nudie magazines, having pinned them together with the edges of splintered bones. He’d babbled, “All the pretty bits that make up the whole. All the pretty bits and what do they add up to?”
His voice rasped, sore from the repetition since the moment he’d cut Momma up.
“So much for they’re not being violent,” Shedu crabbed, snapping his cellphone from his pocket to call security.
The thick glass over Mr. Red’s heart shattered. Renae didn’t hear it. She glimpsed pieces on the floor. She picked one up. Like a mirror… even though it wasn’t. It might have been silver-backed instead of slimy with blood. In it she viewed the commotion around her. A little existential, exotic, supernatural Clockwork Orange. But she couldn’t see herself. There was only a gray blot for Renae.
««—»»
“Hey, I’m a cop, remember?” Eddie asked, exasperated. “It’s embarrassing to have my girlfriend put cops down on live TV. You can see that, right?”
He followed Renae into the kitchen.
“I didn’t mean to make you look bad. You weren’t part of the team that was sent after the ferals in Nubbing Cove. We have an obligation to present facts truthfully, no matter who we’re sleeping with,” she replied.
Renae filled a glass with milk from the refrigerator.
“It was irresponsible putting those freaks together,” he righteously bitched. “One’s dead, the other four in serious condition. You’re damned lucky they didn’t attack you. Lenora flapped around like a chicken Klovis Karloff bit the head off of at the highpoint of one of his concerts. Their families’ll probably sue—if they have families, and aren’t products of spontaneous generation.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Renae mumbled through white milk bubbles. “I don’t write the programming, Eddie. On talk segments I’m a Gothic Charlie McCarthy. Dressed in black and indulging my artsy-fartsy cynicism. I told Shedu the idea was difficult. I’ve seen these guys on the street. No Goth really lacks a capacity for violence, any more than any other human. The fascination with unconditional terror’s part of what’s attractive about the movement. It’s the most graphic physical expression of grief. And these new gangs—well, they’re the most graphic physical expression of Gothic.”
“You can drop the ‘goth’ and leave the ‘ick’,” Eddie added. As he stood, hands on his hips, he realized he didn’t have a clue what she meant. The artsy-fartsy part he believed whole-heartedly. But anyone being ‘into’ grief? And unconditional terror was something he saw every day. He didn’t think it was anyone’s desirable attribute or ambi
tion.
“You knew I was Morticia when we moved in together,” Renae reminded him. “We take each other as we are. This is love’s pathology, complicated and frightening. We’re robots trespassing in the… mirror.”
She suddenly changed her tack. “Would you have been as attracted to me if I were, um, normal? Bought makeup from Avon and clothes from Sears? I don’t dye my hair black like some of the other Goths. It’s natural. I’m also this pale. But I suppose I could get more sun…”
“If you got more sun, you’d wrinkle faster and be a good candidate for skin cancer.”
“You know what I mean. I could be more mainstream.”
Eddie smiled, a twitch at the corners. “Hell, no. You’re my goddess of the sexy, witchy moon. Skin like milk. Snow White without those annoying height-challenged nicknamed-obsessed bodyguards. You’re fair as a Biblical angel, a Renaissance muse, a Victorian spirit, your face almost elvin or that of one of Saladin’s brides. ‘I was a child and she was a child, in this kingdom by the sea: But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee.’ ‘Strange in thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange above all, thy length of tress, and this all solemn silentness!’ ‘Heaving her white breast to the something air, like guilty beauty something, and more fair.’ Something something… ‘as sacred as the light she fears to perfume, perfuming the night…’”
Renae stood amazed, never before having heard such high-toned words from her cop lover. Here was a new dimension of him she’d never suspected. She blushed and laughed, flattered and surprised that he could quote (more or less) from three different poems written by his namesake, Edgar Allan Poe.
Yet why shouldn’t he know at least a little of it, considering his name?
He watched her eyebrows go up. “My mother made me memorize it. She wanted me to be a writer.”
Season of the Witch Page 14
