Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  Until I opened the gym door and stepped inside.

  A shaft of sunlight from the gym’s Rubik’s Cubes windows shone on Davy’s armadillo belt buckle.

  I screamed at the top of my lungs. Then, raising my fists toward the ceiling, I cried, “It was just a kiss, an innocent kiss, it didn’t mean anything. Why didn’t you make me vomit his kiss?”

  Summoned by my scream, the cast and crew entered the gym and stopped short, jostling each other. Madison ran toward me and pulled me into his arms. I said, “It’s all my fault,” then sobbed uncontrollably.

  Murmuring words of comfort, Madison stroked my back.

  My head rested sideways against his chest, my eyes open, and I saw Madison --

  Madison?

  -- standing by the double doors of the Neil Armstrong High School gymnasium, his arms around a grief-stricken Bonnie and a stony-faced Tenia.

  As I tried to absorb the tableau, “my” Madison’s hands left my back, fading away with the rest of him, until my face rested against nothing, unless you consider air something.

  In the split second before I pitched forward and fell, unconscious, to the floor, my frantic gaze touched upon the body that swung from the scoreboard.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The cops called it a suicide.

  I knew better, but they wouldn’t have listened to me, even if I could have told them.

  Davy Crockett Brakowski hadn’t hanged himself with his belt. Davy had been killed by a demon. Or a human. Or a human demon.

  Motive: He had kissed me. It didn’t make any difference if the kiss was a prelude to nothing. The demon didn’t know that, and Davy “wasn’t the one.” There was no doubt in my mind, except…why? WHY didn’t the demon make me vomit Davy’s kiss? WHY kill the boy?

  The film’s on-site doctor had resuscitated then escorted me to the principal’s office, and I felt the same way I used to feel when I was a recalcitrant student at Bayside High. Guilty. Contrite. Apologetic.

  Introduced to a couple of police officers, I felt even more penitent. The interview, however, was a mere formality. The cops, it seemed, had an air-tight case. When I insisted that their case wasn’t air-tight, they told me why it was.

  One, Davy had been castigated, by Madison, over and over again.

  (“But he was ‘up’ when I left him,” I told the cops. “He had his lines memorized and was looking forward to the shoot.”)

  Two, Davy was anti-social, a loner, and his classmates called him a homo…or worse.

  (“Bullshit,” I told the cops. “He had low self-esteem because his father treated him like dirt.”)

  Three, Davy had repeatedly threatened to kill himself so that everybody, especially his dad, would be sorry.

  (“He was building a motorcycle from scratch,” I told the cops, “and excited about buying the parts he needed.”)

  Four, a member of the crew had heard Davy say “Don’t laugh at me, Frannie, don’t you dare laugh at me.”

  How could I explain, without sounding narcissistic, that my “absolutely” had assuaged Davy’s wounded pride? How could I explain that an icy finger made me puke everyone else’s kiss, but not Davy’s? How could I explain Tenia? Or novitiate witches? Or a ghost who ate beetles and wore a diamondback stole? How could I explain anything “woo-woo” to a couple of world-weary, skeptical cops?

  The cops who questioned then released me were polite, as if they’d taken sensitivity classes where they had to watch Law and Order reruns ad nauseam. But they obviously thought I had contributed to Davy’s suicide and wanted to mitigate my guilt by conjuring up a make-believe murderer.

  If Madison had any guilt, he didn’t show it. Discarding his usual hermitic façade, posing in front of mikes and TV cameras, he said that Forever Asmodeus (starring Jeremy Glenn and Catherine Lee Sands) would include a dedication to Davy Crockett Brakowski. During the credits, Madison said, at the end of the movie.

  Funny how he suddenly remembered the kid’s name, I thought, as Madison continued.

  He had dozens of takes, enough film so that movie-goers could see how beautifully Davy had played the part of the handsome but tormented high school student, not unlike James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. Davy was another James Dean, his promising career cut short by unforeseen circumstances. And, in essence, just like James Dean, Davy would never die.

  Christ! I saw a few reporters, men and women both, wipe tears from their eyes. They didn’t know, as I knew, that Madison planned to insert another kid, another basketball player, seen from the back or not seen at all, easily filmed off-location. During the lunch break, Madison had re-written the Jerry-Robin kiss so that Lynn Beth had 90% of Davy’s lines. Of course, he’d keep the close-ups that revealed Davy’s confusion. And anguish.

  However, the James Dean bit was brilliant. I had to give Madison that, but I didn’t have to give him anything else. My body, for instance.

  Aside from his blatant promotional tactics, aside from his ability to turn Davy’s death into a Forever Asmodeus asset, I blamed Madison for “the kid’s” execution. If he had been a little more compassionate, a little less disparaging, I wouldn’t have sought out Davy and he’d still be alive.

  Or would he still be alive? Everything I told the cops was true, but the echo of Davy’s you’re-such-a-fucking-freak kept reverberating inside my head. Maybe he’d shifted back into freak-mode as soon as I exited the gym. No! He had Dumbo’s feather. He believed in Dumbo’s feather.

  He did, didn’t he? Or did I believe in Dumbo’s feather?

  The police had found my Star of David necklace in Davy’s jock strap. If he had put the necklace in one of his sneakers ‑‑ taking the shoe off then lacing it up again ‑‑ would he have had enough time to change his mind? Or had he unhesitatingly thrust the necklace into his jock strap, scooped up his belt, and headed for the scoreboard?

  My earring hadn’t been found, but I couldn’t have cared less. If only I’d gone back to search for the diamond right away. If only --

  “Frannie! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  As I stared up at Bonnie, I realized I still warmed a bench inside the locker room. I even wore my cheerleader’s uniform. Which didn’t have blood on it, but should have.

  “Sorry, Bon,” I said. “I’m not in a very good mood.”

  “Everyone’s feeling down. We thought we’d hit a bar, not too far from here. The limo drivers said they’d wait. We’ve all decided to get smashed…” She paused. “Frannie, is Andre out of the picture?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  “Jem said he’d take care of you.”

  “What time is it?

  “Late. The police are finished and they plan to lock up the school.”

  “Change…clothes,” I mumbled, not moving, still drugged by guilt.

  “Wake up, Frannie. Grab your clothes and change later.” She squinted at her watch. “Damn it, move!”

  I moved. After the Black Mass, I’d sworn never to drink again, but what the hell. If the demon appeared, I’d ask him why he hadn’t made me vomit Davy’s kiss.

  A new thought occurred.

  Madison had kissed me. In the hallway, near the cafeteria.

  Granted, it wasn’t a deep sucky kiss, like Jem’s kiss or Andre’s kiss. In fact, Madison’s kiss was no more aggressive than Davy’s kiss. But I hadn’t vomited, and as far as I knew, Madison was still alive.

  “Bon,” I said, as we ran toward the exit. “You were with Madison during the lunch break. Did he ever leave you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When we broke for lunch, did he meet you inside the cafeteria?”

  “No. We walked to the cafeteria, ate together, and returned to the gym. On our way back, we ran into Tenia. Then we heard you scream.”

  “He never left? To talk to someone else? Or use the restroom?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Hurry, Bon, I need a drink. I need to drown myself in a bottle of vodka. If I do, maybe things’
ll make more sense.”

  I pictured my New York psychic and heard myself saying By the way, Mrs. Carvainis, do you believe in spirits?

  I saw her blood-red brooch and heard her reply: Doppelgangers.

  Oh, dear, oh, shit, doppelgangers…

  Ghostly counterparts of living persons.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I didn’t drown, but if there had been a beer vat large enough to fall into, I would have.

  “My kisses are jinxed,” I told Jem, “but you can do anything else.”

  I was so drunk, I felt numb as well as uninhibited.

  “Feel me up, Jem, feel me down, even put your you-know-what in my ‑‑”

  “Frannie, watch your mouth,” Bonnie said, as drunk as I, although Bonnie doesn’t usually drink very much.

  We both thought watch-your-mouth was the funniest remark in the history of the world, and we laughed so hard I almost peed my cheerleader’s uniform.

  “Watch your mouth,” Bonnie said again, but it wasn’t as funny the second time.

  “I’m Marianne,” I told Jem and Bonnie, removing one of my elbows from the bar’s surface. My first finger managed to find my back and tap the felt letters. “Marianne doesn’t have to watch her mouth. Marianne can do anything she fucking polices.”

  “Fucking pleases,” Bonnie said, although she hardly ever uses the F-word.

  “No, no, Bonnie, police. They wouldn’t listen to Marianne. They believe she…” I paused to belch. “They believe I killed Davy.”

  My words hit a wall of silence. Everyone had paused for breath or was sipping/gulping down their drinks. The bartender was changing a tape, so even the music had stopped.

  “You didn’t kill Davy,” Jem said. “She’s drunk,” he told the room.

  Everyone nodded and began to talk again. The music blared The Byrds…Lay Lady Lay.

  “Marianne says turn down the music,” I told the bartender.

  “You got it, Marianne. I wouldn’t want you to kill me.”

  The bartender meant it as a joke. Nevertheless, I told him to shut the fuck up.

  Bonnie was now sprawled across the lap of Jon Rubenstein, the hunk who played the fictitious Rockets’ basketball coach. “Bonnie hoped Madison would be here,” I told Jem. “That’s why she’s drinkin’ so much. Do you know where he is?”

  “Sure, Frannie. He’s at the hotel. Booking a flight to L.A.”

  “Call Marianne Marianne, Jem. Why’s he flyin’ to L-freaking-A?”

  “Because tomorrow he’ll meet with Stevie Eisenberg.”

  “Why?”

  “Madison and Stevie will revise the script and give Robin a new boyfriend,” Jem said. “Frannie, my little kumquat, you need fresh air, eh?”

  “Marianne kumquat,” I admonished. “Do you think Marianne can kiss Jem, Jem? She wants to awful bad, and maybe the demon’ll be fooled ‘cause she’s Marianne, not Frannie.”

  As Jem helped me off my stool, I began to cry, and that’s the last thing I remember.

  I didn’t pass out, but I have no idea what happened when Jem drove me home, just the two of us, inside an empty limousine.

  Well, empty except for the driver. I must have given the driver directions, which is incredible when you consider how out of it I was, because he found Rick’s duplex. I don’t remember what happened when Jem walked me inside. I think he might have stayed a while because the hands on the shipshape clock traveled round and round like a movie telling time. I think he took off my cheerleader’s uniform, even though I kept saying I was cold and needed a sweatshirt. I think he put me to bed. I don’t remember if he joined me there. I don’t think he did. I think he said, “Goodnight Frannie, goodnight Marianne, and thank you.”

  Marianne was as drunk as Frannie and I don’t think either of us knew why Jem was thanking us…until hours later when I woke up and let the icy finger do its thing.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” I said to the empty bathroom. “He’s not the one. I’ve vomited Jem’s kisses, you bastard. Now, for Christ’s sake…for Satan’s sake…why don’t you leave me the fuck alone?”

  MADISON’S COTTAGE - LOS ANGELES

  Hollyhocks brushed against her knees as the dark-haired woman spat on her handkerchief. After rubbing the hanky across a piece of window, she stared into the cottage.

  He wasn’t there, but that was okey dokey, smokey.

  She tried to keeps tabs on him (isn’t tab a soda?) and knew he was someplace that started with a T (Tennessee? Toronto? Timbuktu?…Tab is a diet soda; I drank it for years, dammit…Texas! That’s where he is.)

  Usually she had trouble remembering things, but this time she’d remembered.

  “Could be worse,” she told her window reflection. “A lot worse, they say. For instance, if I had that forget-disease…Alzheimers? Ah well…I remembered Tab, didn’t I?”

  Her reflection nodded agreement.

  She had seen a movie once called Shirley… (Dammit…dammit…dammit…some kind of holiday. Mother’s Day? Shirley Mother? No…that doesn’t sound right. Valentine’s Day…that’s it) and Shirley talked to walls.

  Everybody, especially Nurse, thought that part of the movie was hilarious.

  (What’s so funny about talking to walls? At least they don’t talk back. And if you ask questions, you can make up her own answers, which can be fun.)

  And Dr…(his name…dammit…what’s his name?)

  “I can’t remember his name because he’s new,” she told the window. “My real doctor died of old age. They said, Oh, God, heart attack, but he died of…Dr. Feldman. That’s the name of the new doctor.

  “And he says it’s all right to talk to walls. Or windows, if you prefer. Or the mirror. Dr…oh, hell…the one who died, wanted me to write everything down in a book called a…dairy? No…that doesn’t sound right. Oh, I hate this!

  “Caruth! That was his name. And it’s diary…not dairy.”

  She had drunk Tab because she didn’t want to get fat. Way back then, Madison drank Coca-Cola. Once he had said, “Every single day you see the word ‘Coca-Cola’ on signs, on TV, in the stores, on a menu, even when you’re not looking for it. I wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to think people will see the words ‘Victor Madison’ every day, but when they see a horror book or a horror movie, I want them to associate it with my name.”

  “How come I can remember that,” she said to her window reflection, “when I can’t remember diary or Dr. Caruth? Anyway…why did I come here?”

  Madison (who wanted everyone to see his name every day) had something she wanted to see, and he wasn’t home, obviously. Well of course…the L.A. Times said so. The Times said he was in…Texas, and someone had died, and there was a big picture of Victor Madison standing in front of a school, and there was a little picture of the kid who died. It should have been the other way around. The kid who died should have gotten the big picture.

  When Dr. Feldman died he got a small picture. (No, not Dr. Feldman. Dr. Caruth. Why the hell can’t I keep them straight? Dr. Caruth was the old doctor and Feldman is young. When I first met him, Dr. Caruth was young…maybe that’s why I keep getting them confused. Nurse says that when you forget a name, you should go up and down the alphabet. A, B, C…Caruth! D, E, F…Feldman!)

  Anyway, the Times said Madison was in…R, S, T…Texas, so this morning she’d given Nurse the slip.

  That’s what they called it on TV, even though everyone knew a slip was something you wore under a pretty dress. But she watched Jeremy Glenn every week, even the reruns, and he called it slip. She had no trouble remembering Jeremy’s name because she loved his show.

  “Are the doors locked?” she asked the wall, then made up her own answer. “Of course they’re locked.”

  She could say open-sesame like A…Adam Sandler. No! A… Aladdin. But that was a little kid’s story, dammit, so it probably wouldn’t work.

  Maybe she’d go through Victor (who wanted everyone to see his name) Madison’s trash can, first.

  *
* * * *

  Victor stared at the flight attendant.

  Black. Denzel in Glory.

  Graceful, with finely-honed muscles.

  Probably played college ball but didn’t go pro.

  Wide receiver? Fullback? Tight end?

  Years ago, the A&P manager had accused Victor of raping people with his eyes. At the time Victor had thought it a compliment, and he still did. Stripping away flesh, he scrutinized the flight attendant’s bone structure. Nice. Very nice. “Denzel” was maybe twenty-five, and he didn’t wear a wedding band. Straight? Gay? Hard to tell, but by the time the fucking plane landed in L.A., Victor would know.