One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

by Gail Bowen

  One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

  Gail Bowen

  Charlie D is back doing his late-night radio call-in show. It's Halloween – The Day of the Dead. Not a day filled with good memories for Charlie, but the show must go on. His studio guest this evening is Dr. Robin Harris, an arrogant and ambitious "expert in the arts of dying and grieving," who also seems to be auditioning for her own radio talk show. Charlie and Dr. Harris do not hit it off. Things go from bad to worse when the doctor's ex-lover, Gabe, goes on air to announce that he's about to end his life. Dr. Harris is entirely unsympathetic until she learns that Gabe also has her daughter Kali and plans to poison her too. It will take all of Charlie D's on-air skills to save both Gabe and Kali.

  Gail Bowen

  One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

  The second book in the Charlie D series, 2010

  For everyone who reads this book

  CHAPTER ONE

  Tonight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I checked my essentials.

  “As all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.

  The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old tv show M*A*S*H. His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.

  “You’re bleeding,” he said.

  “It’s a birthmark,” I said.

  As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.

  “The doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “But you’ve learned to live with it.”

  “Most of the time,” I said.

  “That’s all any of us can do,” the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeye’s-open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he said.

  He picked up my twisted Schwinn and stowed it in the back of the hearse. I slid into the passenger seat. The air inside was cool, flower-scented and oddly soothing. After we’d buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “CVOX Radio,” I said. “728 Shuter.”

  “It’s in a strip mall,” he said. “Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “This is a big city.”

  “It is,” he agreed. “But my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.”

  Perhaps because the night was foggy and he’d already had one accident, the driver didn’t talk as he threaded his way through the busy downtown streets. When we turned on to Shuter, I saw the neon call letters on the roof of our building. The O in CVOX (“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME”) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mick’s tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.

  “I’ll pick you up when your show’s over,” the man said.

  “I’ll take a cab,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”

  He shrugged and handed me a business card. “Call me if you change your mind. Otherwise, I’ll courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.”

  “You don’t know my name.”

  The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. “Sure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and you’re the host of ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ I’m a fan. I even phoned in once. It was the night you walked off the show and disappeared for a year. You were in rough shape.”

  “That’s why I left.”

  “I was relieved that you did,” he said. “I sensed that if you didn’t turn things around, you and I were destined to meet professionally. My profession, not yours. You were too young to need my services, so I called in to remind you of what Woody Allen said.”

  “I remember. ‘Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and it’s over much too soon.’” I met the man’s eyes. “Wise words,” I said. “I still ponder them.”

  “So you haven’t stopped grieving for the woman you lost?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you decided to keep on living,” he said.

  “For the time being,” I said. We shook hands, and I opened the car door and climbed out. As I watched the hearse disappear into the fog, the opening lines of an old schoolyard rhyme floated to the top of my consciousness.

  Do you ever think when a hearse goes by

  That one fine day you’re gonna die?

  They’ll wrap you up in a cotton sheet

  And throw you down about forty feet. The worms crawl in,

  The worms crawl out…

  There was more, but I had to cut short my reverie. It was October 31. Halloween. The Day of the Dead. And I had a show to do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Late at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our show’s producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each other’s moods, and we anticipate one another’s needs.

  Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.

  Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that we’re in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didn’t know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.

  Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, she’s taller than me, and I’m an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.

  At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that she’d worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.

  The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.

  “Dr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”

  Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.

  “We don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.

  “There’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”

  “Against you?” I say.

  Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”

  “In that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say
. “Maybe I can help.”

  Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.

  Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.

  “You’d better get in there,” she says.

  “We’re on air in one minute, five.”

  I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.

  “Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”

  Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that she’s on the air comes to life.

  “If you don’t block Dr. Gabriel Ireland’s calls, you’ll regret it,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “On-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio,” I say.

  As she hears Dr. Harris’s words, Nova’s smile is sweet. When we’re on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, I’m the only one who can hear her. Tonight she’s decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Nova’s voice on the talkback is amused.

  “FYI, Charlie, Dr. Harris tells me that people from an unnamed network are listening to our show tonight. Dr. Harris is on the short list for a call-in show of her own. My guess is she doesn’t want Gabriel Ireland getting through because he might put her off her game.”

  “O-kay,” I say.

  “There’s an introduction on your computer screen,” Nova says. She holds up five fingers and counts down. “And you’re on the air.”

  Our theme music, “Ants Marching” by the Dave Matthews Band, comes up. When the music fades, it’s my turn. Like everyone in my business, I’ve created a voice that works for my audience. My radio voice is soothing, deep and intimate, but tonight I take it down a few notches and open with the sepulchral tones of the villain in a horror movie.

  “Good evening. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ It’s October thirty-first, the Day of the Dead, and our topic is-DEATH! How do you see it? A bony guy carrying a scythe rasping out your name, or a heavenly choir robed in white calling you home? Do you fear it? Do you welcome it? What do you think about the way we, as a society, handle death? Where do you stand on funerals- do you want to be torched and scattered to the four winds, or do you want the full meal deal with incense, prayers and all the bells and whistles. Our lines are open. Give me a call at 1-800-555-2333 or email me at charlie d at nation tv dot com.

  “I’m joined tonight by Dr. Robin Harris, medical doctor, sociologist and expert in the arts of dying and grieving. Welcome, Dr. Harris.”

  “Thank you for inviting me, Charlie D.” The warmth and fullness of her voice are extraordinary. The network guys for whom she’s auditioning must be creaming their jeans. She adjusts her notes. “The questions you raise are complex, and as a thanatologist, I believe I can contribute specialized knowledge that will be helpful to your listeners.”

  “We’re in your debt,” I say. “Now tell me, in words that make sense to us all, what exactly does a thanatologist do?”

  “In words that make sense to your audience, I study how people in varying cultures at varying times have dealt with death. I believe there are lessons there that can help people on the most vulnerable days of their lives.”

  “And those days would be…?”

  “The day when they themselves are about to die or when they learn that someone significant in their life has died.”

  I remember the exact moment when I heard that my golden, glowing Ariel had died. She was twenty-eight years old. When she was thirteen, she made a tablecloth out of midnight blue velvet and appliquéd it with gold and silver satin cut-outs of suns, moons, stars, buds, blossoms, fruits, birds, fish and animals. Ariel’s world encompassed everything, and then she was gone. We used the cloth she sewed to cover the box that held her ashes. Suddenly I can’t speak. Through the glass that separates us, I see Nova’s worried eyes and the quarter smile that she offers when I need encouragement.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On talk radio, dead air is the enemy. Spotting her chance, Doctor Harris leans in to her microphone. People from the unnamed network are listening, assessing how Dr. Harris can handle situations on air. But people for whom I am a lifeline are also listening. I failed them once before. I’m not going to let it happen again. I dig deep for my cool and commanding voice, and it’s there.

  “So you deal with people who are about to die or people who’ve just lost someone they love,” I say. “Heavy stuff.”

  Dr. Har ris’s laugh is warm and self-deprecating.

  “Heavy stuff indeed, but I teach people how to do the heavy lifting.”

  “You make it sound so easy-like doing push-ups.”

  “Handling death is like doing push-ups,” she says smoothly. “At first you think you can’t get past your weakness, but if you persist, every day you get stronger. You simply have to show your grief that you’re its master.”

  Everything about Robin Harris is without flaw. Her profile is classic; the lines of her neck are graceful; the deep plum polish on the perfect ovals of her fingernails matches the gloss on her lips. As she utters her insights, her voice is certain. I think of my listeners, broken and vulnerable, and of me, broken and vulnerable too.

  “Where were you when I needed you?” I say.

  Her green eyes meet mine.

  “You lost someone?”

  “Yup.”

  “And…?”

  “And…I’ll never touch her body again, or smell the fragrance of her skin or hear her voice. I’m like Eurydice in the underworld when she stretches out her arms to Orpheus, struggling to be grasped and to grasp him…” My voice breaks.

  Nova’s voice comes through the talkback.

  “Want me to go to music?”

  I shake my head.

  “And catches fleeting air,” Dr. Harris says. “I’m familiar with the story. Incidentally, Orpheus didn’t have to lose Eurydice. He could have carried her back from the underworld if he’d honored his promise not to look at her.”

  “His fault,” I say.

  “Most of our suffering is self-induced,” Dr. Harris says coolly. “We have to be strong enough to face that. And move on.”

  “That would be a trick,” I say. “I’m sure Orpheus would have benef ited from your counsel, Dr. Harris-I’m sure you would have saved the day.”

  Nova runs a finger across her throat, indicating that I should stick a sock in it.

  “I’m going to music,” she says through the talkback. “Info’s on your computer screen. Then we’ll take a caller.” She pauses. “Don’t let her draw you in, Charlie. We’ll get through this. Lunch tomorrow is on me.”

  I read Nova’s notes announcing “Manhã de Carnaval” from Black Orpheus. The music comes up and I meet Dr. Harris’s eyes. “This is certainly going well,” I say.

  “I don’t like your tone,” she says.

  “Neither do I,” I say. “Unfortunately, it’s the only tone I have.”

  I open the talkback, so I’m certain Nova hears the conversation. “Dr. Harris, why don’t you and I park our egos and get on with this? When you have your own show-and I’m sure you will-the spotlight will be on you. ‘The World According to Charlie D’ focuses on our callers. You and I got off to a bad start tonight. Let’s just chill and listen to the music. When it’s over, we’ll start taking calls. Any questions?”

  “None that you could answer,” she says. The melody has gone from her voice.

  Until the music ends, Dr. Harris shuffles through her notes, and I watch her shuffle. We’re like two people on the world’s worst blind date. Nova peers at us over her wire-rimmed reading glasses and bites her nails. She’s a committed nail-chewer and, lovely as she is, her hands look like a nervous six-year-old’s. “And
we’re back,” she says finally.

  I turn on my microphone. “That was ‘Manhã de Carnaval’ from the original sound track for the film Black Orpheus. I’m Charlie Dowhanuik, and you are listening to ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ Our topic on this Halloween night is the big D. Death. So how do you see ‘being defunct’? One of these days all of us will head for the last roundup. Yippee ai oh kay ay. Are you ready to saddle up? Made your will? Filled out your donor card? Made peace with your enemies? Made peace with yourself? Give us a call at 1-800-555-2333. Let us know what you’ve done to prepare for the moment when you shake hands with Mr. Death.

  “And for those of you who’ve just joined us, we have a guest tonight. Dr. Robin Harris is a thanatologist, a specialist who knows everything there is to know about death and dying. Dr. Harris is ‘professionally equipped’ to advise the rest of us on how to face our fears when the Grim Reaper taps on our imagination.

  “Our first caller is Louise, from Sudbury. Greetings, Louise, what’s on your mind tonight?”

  Words can lie but voices never do. Louise has the rasp of a woman who has enjoyed her whiskey, her cigarettes and her men. I like her.

  “Hi, Charlie D,” she says. “And hello, Dr. Robin…sorry, I didn’t catch your last name. Anyway, what’s on my mind tonight is my mother.” Louise chortles. “Dead or alive, it’s always about her.”

  “So I take it your mother is no longer with us,” I say.

  “You take it correctly, and I want to talk about how pissed I am at the way she died.”

  Our guest expert adjusts her mike.

  “Louise, this is Dr. Robin Harris.” She articulates her name with the care of someone attempting to teach a cow to speak. “So you’re calling because your mother suffered greatly,” she says.

  Louise is huffy.

  “She didn’t suffer at all, Dr. Robin Harris. My mother was ninety-two years old and she died in her own bed with clean sheets, her own teeth, a silk nightie with the price tag still on it, and a smile on her face a mile wide.”