Unfinished Business

by B. G. Thomas

  Joel let out a long breath. “What about her?”

  God, thought Mike. The wife, Lori. I’ve fucked everything up….

  “Can you tell me which one she is in his phonebook, for instance?”

  “Her name is Lori.” Then: “Hey! How’d you get into his phone anyway? Mike has it… had it password protected. I don’t know the password.”

  Brookhart shrugged.

  I screamed it at her, Mike thought.

  “I don’t know. I just got this sudden… hunch? It worked.” She scrolled through what Mike realized must be his contacts while Joel gave her a surprised look. “Lori, you say?”

  Joel nodded, wiped at his face, and stepped away from the windows.

  “Ah. Here.” Brookhart sighed. “Christ, I hate this. Worst part of the job.”

  “What’s the best part?”

  “Helping people,” she answered immediately. “Letting them know a loved one is dead is the worst.”

  Oh no! Mike thought as Joel let out a moan and sat back down on the bed. She’s going to call Lori. Again Detective Brookhart was calling someone to let them know he was dead. Dead. Mike fell back against the desk. Lori! I’m sorry! “Lori,” he whispered.

  And….

  —Swish—

  He was in a bedroom. But not his own. Not their own. But Lori was in the bed with someone.

  With a man.

  8

  MIKE STUMBLED backward in surprise, almost tripping over his own feet. Lori was lying on her back—a sheet pulled high enough so it was just concealing her breasts—staring at the ceiling. The man was Greg Beachley. He lived down at the corner of their block. They’d invited him to the house for a party a little over a year ago, soon after he’d moved in. Mike remembered his last name even though he’d only really talked to him that one time. It was his job to remember names. Greg had seemed nice. Lori had even talked about him that evening when they went to bed. How nice he’d seemed.

  Nice.

  I guess Lori thought he was nicer than I did.

  Greg was on his side, propped up on one elbow and gazing down at her. “I love you,” he said.

  “Christ,” Mike muttered, and looked away. Looked back. He couldn’t help it.

  “Say it, Lori,” Greg continued.

  “Say what?” Lori asked.

  “That you love me.” He smiled. It was a nice smile.

  Mike had never found the man to be attractive, his near-complete baldness probably a part of it. It wasn’t a turnoff, but not something Mike found sexy. Maybe it was his fear that his mother would pass her father’s baldness to him. Maybe that was why he found Joel’s thick hair so beautiful. But Greg did have an amazing body. Mike had suspected as much when the guy jogged by in the mornings as Mike was leaving for work. The sheet on his side was pulled down to his hip, showing off a muscular chest and part of a solid, round buttock. God! I’m checking out his body… I really am gay.

  Of course, Mike preferred Joel’s sleekly muscled body to Greg’s bulky physique. But Lori had chosen a lover well.

  Mike’s eyebrows raised at an abrupt conclusion. Greg always jogs by when I am leaving for work. Was he waiting for me to leave? If he felt any anger at his discovery of his wife’s cheating, it rose up and wafted away in less than an instant. How ironic, he thought. I wonder which of us was first.

  Greg shifted his leg and brought it up over Lori’s, the sheet pulling away and revealing his ass completely. I need to leave. This was being a voyeur of the worst way. I need to “swish” out of here….

  But how? He couldn’t even walk out of the room. The bedroom door was closed. How do I do it? he wondered. The “swish”?

  “Come on, Lori.” Greg gave her a little poke in the side. “Say it. Say that you love me. I know you do.”

  “If you know…,” she said, sitting up, letting the sheet fall and not hiding her breasts the way she always did with Mike, even after all these years of marriage. “…then why do you need me to say it?”

  “Oh, Lori,” Mike said aloud. “We’re two of a kind, aren’t we?”

  Two people who had fit together rather well. He, successful, the cofounder of software that more and more clients wanted to use for their businesses. Those clients being impressed by the fact that he, one of the owners of the company, was willing to travel all over the country to train people on how to use it. The personal touch. The truth was, he liked to travel. To get away….

  And Lori? She was the perfect businessman’s wife. She was lovely—with long brown hair, expressive brown eyes, full lips, a delightful laugh, and creamy white skin. She had a nice figure (she ran three to four miles on the treadmill every evening), and her breasts were neither large nor small. “Perfect,” she’d declared them. She was just the kind of woman a businessman wanted on his arm.

  She kept a perfect house, ran it like a business. She was a consummate cook (if he brought clients or associates home for dinner, she took pride in preparing the meals), was an excellent conversationalist (often impressing those clients and associates), and had an exceptional mind for business as well. She’d spotted great investments, discovered new clients, and hadn’t it been her idea that he take those opportunities to travel and teach his software?

  God…. Could she have been cheating on him for years? Was that why she’d suggested it? Almost insisted on it?

  Lori climbed out of the bed and walked, carefree, to the bathroom door.

  “Lori,” Greg called after her.

  “I need to use the ladies’ room,” she said and closed the door.

  Greg climbed out of bed, and Mike looked despite himself. He couldn’t help it. And yes, Lori had indeed chosen her lover well. Greg went to the bathroom door. “All right. Don’t say it. Break my heart. We’ve only been seeing each other a year now.”

  Well, that answered that question. Who knows who was the first to have an affair? But they’d been seeing their respective lovers for almost the same amount of time. Ironic.

  It occurred to Mike that he was taking all of this pretty well. Not only the fact that his wife had a lover, but that he was… well, dead. Not that it was easy. But going from death to thinking it was a dream to accepting all this as real, everything that was actually happening…. Why, he’d made the move pretty swiftly.

  There was a long pause, and then the door opened, Greg nearly toppling into her arms. They laughed.

  “Oh, Greg.”

  Just say it, Lori. Tell him. Don’t be like me.

  But then she was like him. It was why they’d been perfect partners, even if not lovers.

  Greg kissed her, and she fought it for only a second and then melted against him. She pulled back after a long moment that Mike really hadn’t been able to watch. He only looked back when she said, “All right, Greg. I lo—”

  Her cell phone rang.

  Oh no. Mike stepped forward. Don’t answer it, Lori! “Don’t answer it!”

  But she did, of course. Even in the arms of a lover, she had to at least check to see who was calling. What if it was business?

  “Shit,” she said. She was seeing his name on the screen. He knew that. She sat down and pulled the sheets high. As if he could see her over the phone. As if he wasn’t dead.

  “Don’t answer it, Lori….”

  “Hello, dear. You all checked in to your hotel?”

  Pause.

  A pause that turned out to be horrible.

  This woman who had just been about to say, “I love you,” to her lover…. Her face. She began to shake. “What?”

  Greg went to her. Mike wished he could have. “Are you all right, baby?” Greg asked.

  She looked at him, eyes wide and filling with tears. “Oh God.”

  Mike turned away. He couldn’t stand it.

  “Yes. Yes, I can come. I’ll see if I can get a flight out today. If not, tomorrow.”

  “Lori, what’s going on?”

  “Yes. Please. How do I get ahold of you?”

  Mike looked back as she pre
ssed the phone to her chest. “I need a pen and paper, Greg. Now.” Her tone brooked no argument.

  Greg, looking very concerned, nodded, went to his bureau, and got what she asked for. When he handed it to her, she wrote.

  “Yes. Thank you, Officer. Detective. I’m sorry. Brookhart? Is that h-e-a-r-t or h-a-r-t? Yes. I have it. Thank you.” She shuddered. “I have a friend here. I’ll be all right. I’ll see you soon.” She signed off the phone. Looked at Greg.

  “What is it, baby?”

  “It’s Mike,” she said. “He’s…. He’s dead.” And then she burst into tears. Lori! burst into tears!

  It was too much. Too much.

  Mike turned. Ran heedlessly to the door. And….

  9

  THERE WAS that sudden blinding pain again!

  God! He clutched his chest…. Or tried to. He wanted to scream from the pain, but he couldn’t seem to do anything. Light! There was so much light, and he didn’t know where he was and….

  10

  MIKE STUMBLED (he was on his feet again) and nearly fell down onto an unfamiliar street.

  “Sit down,” he said out loud. “I’ve got to sit down.”

  Before he fell down….

  Funny, he thought. That a ghost should need to sit down. That he could get dizzy? That his heart could race? That he could feel sweaty and clammy? How could he feel anything at all?

  “I’m f-fuck-ing dead!” he shouted in despair and felt the tears coming.

  He spotted steps in front of an old apartment building. Where the hell was he?

  Mike walked, swaying, to the steps—they were only about fifteen feet away. He thought he could make it. An old woman with two big shopping bags was sitting there, wearing a scarf over her head and a heavy coat despite the warm weather.

  The steps were wide, though. Room enough for him. Hell, he could sit down in her lap, couldn’t he? She’d never know. Of course, that would be too creepy. Obscene, somehow.

  Mike made it the last few feet and plopped down right next to the woman. He looked around. He had no idea where he was. Why was he here? The other times—when he’d “moved”—it had been to go to someone. But this time he’d just gone away. But why here?

  Was it because he had needed to get away so badly?

  All that pain?

  I’m a coward.

  But it wasn’t that. Not really.

  No one should have to see what he’d been seeing. No one. Why was this happening? Why hadn’t he… passed on?

  “God-fucking-damn,” he said.

  No sooner had the words left his lips than he heard a trickling sound—no… it couldn’t be—and was assaulted by the sharp smell of urine. God! Had the old woman—he turned to look at her—had she just pissed herself?

  “Shouldn’t swear,” she muttered.

  There was a part of him that wanted to bite her head off. Not swear? Really? You just pissed yourself while I’m sitting here and you’re upset I swore?

  But….

  But that part was an old part.

  Something from Before Joel.

  Joel cheerfully gave money to every beggar, every person who walked up in a parking lot and said, “Excuse me, sir, but can you spare a dollar? My car ran out of gas and….”

  The first time—when Mike and Joel had come out of a convenience store with a couple of huge ice teas—Mike had scowled at the stinky old man asking for a dollar and been ready to rip into him. It was always a dollar. It was always “ran out of gas.” They were always late for something. But before Mike could say a word, Joel had given the guy two dollars.

  “Good luck,” he’d told him. “Wish it could be more.”

  “God bless you, sir,” the old man had said.

  “Are you crazy?” Mike had snarled once they got in the car. “Why did you give him any money?”

  “Mike!” Joel had said, a look of utter surprise on his face. “What’s two dollars to you? It won’t even buy a Big Mac. But it’ll help him a lot.”

  “But you know he’s only going to buy booze or drugs with it,” Mike shot back. “He isn’t going to get any gas. He’s not late for any-damned-thing.”

  Joel shrugged. “I don’t know that, Mike. You don’t either. And it’s not important. I did what my heart compelled me to do. It’s up to him what he does with it.”

  Mike had been stunned by the remark. And as the months passed—as he witnessed more of Joel’s compassion and generosity, as he was bathed more and more in Joel’s kindness and love—something happened to him. The stone around his heart began to crumble. The disappointment in life began to fade away. He began to find his happy childhood self again.

  The part of him that was disgusted with an old woman unable to keep herself from urinating right there on the steps of the apartment building had been transformed by a sweet, loving man named Joel Kauffman. Mike had been so upset. But it hit him then: How humiliating for her. The poor woman. And when that old lady told him not to swear, in honor of Joel, he instead said, “I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted,” she replied.

  Both their heads snapped in each other’s direction. “You heard me!” they chorused.

  11

  MIKE LEAPED to his feet in surprise. She saw him! She heard him! And he didn’t have to scream at her.

  She was crying, looking up at him with an expression of amazement. “Mary, Jesus, Holy Mary, Mother of God….” She looked at him in… was that wonder? “You hear me…. It…. It’s… I….”

  Confusion. He saw confusion in her dark eyes.

  “…been so… long? Has it? I’m….” She shook her head, looked away furtively, then looked back. “So confused.” She was staring at him now, tears running down her face.

  Christ! Am I making everyone cry?

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,” she continued. “The Lord is with thee.” She was pulling something from her blouse. A rosary. “Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb….”

  “Ma’am,” Mike said, sitting down now, instinctively touching her arm, and just as he was about to draw it back, he was amazed to find her arm was soft, pliant…. Not a statue. Not some plastic mannequin. Real!

  The old woman’s eyes went wide as well, and she looked down at his hand, then slowly—slowly—touched it. Her fingers felt cold. “Holy Mary…. Mother of God… pray for us sinners…. Now and at the hour of our…”

  “How?” Mike asked. How can she hear me? Why does she feel so real?

  “…death.”

  He rested his other hand on hers, not knowing the last time he’d wanted to touch another human being more.

  “I… I….” She swallowed. He could hear it. “They look right through me. Like I’m not even here.” More tears. “And sometimes….” She shuddered. “Sometimes they walk….”

  Before she could finish her sentence, it happened. A young woman in a bright floral sundress dragging two children behind her—four years old? five?—walked right through the old woman.

  Mike fell back in wonder.

  “Mommy!” said the little girl. “I smell pee-pee!”

  “Norma Raye Menser! If you’ve pottied in your panties…!”

  “No, Mommy,” she cried with great indignation. “I think it was the old lady again….”

  Mike looked up after them, almost at the top of the short flight of steps, with surprise. The mother, barely old enough to be one….

  Smack!

  Crying….

  “I told you to stop telling stories about that old lady. There is no old lady! How many times—” Their voices cut off as they went into the building.

  The little girl said she sees the old woman. At least sometimes. Why?

  It’s because she doesn’t know it’s impossible yet, he thought. But with slaps like that, she soon won’t be able to anymore. She already hadn’t seen the old woman just now…. The dead woman. And that was it, wasn’t it? Why she could see and hear him.

  He turned to look at her, and the expressio
n on her face was awful. Mike leaned toward the woman, reached for her hand, hesitated, then stroked it anyway. “Ma’am….” Surely. How to say this? “Surely you know?”

  “Know?” she asked, eyes wild. “Know what?”

  He could see it. See it through the confusion showing in her eyes. She knew. She had to.

  “Ma’am—”

  “Rose,” she said. She leaned forward, resting her weight on her knees. “Rose Silveira. I have to get upstairs. Make dinner for Paulo. He’ll be home soon. He works hard. He’ll want his dinner….”

  Mike took a deep breath—wondered about that, breathing—and continued. “Ma’am. Rose. You want me to call you Rose?”

  She nodded. Sniffed.

  “Rose. You’re….” He almost said “dead” and then changed his mind. Changed the way he was going to say it. “You’re like me, Rose. You and me. We’re… dead.”

  The hurt on her face—no, the fear—was almost too much to take. She shook her head once. Twice. “N-No.”

  He nodded. “That’s why some people, that woman and those two kids, were able to walk through you.”

  She shook her head again. “No.” Forcing certainty.

  “That’s why you can hear me,” he continued. “Why I can hear you.”

  She looked at him. Pleading. Then slowly it came. Sad. Knowing. “Dead…?”

  And suddenly, he wanted to cry. Joel…. What have you done to me? What is with all this crying? “Yes,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Her eyes filled with tears again. “You’re dead too?”

  Yes, he thought. “Yes.”

  “H-how? How did you…?” She stopped.

  “Driving and texting.”

  “Tex-ing?”

  “You know… texting.” And then he saw she didn’t know. How long had she been dead? “I wasn’t paying attention while I was driving. Someone T-boned… I mean, someone hit me.”

  She took a shuddering breath—making him wonder once more about ghosts breathing (did they need to?). He set the thought aside. “I—I’m sorry….”

  “It’s….” What was he going to say? That it was okay? It wasn’t okay. Not in the least. It was horrible. It was worse than horrible. All the things left undone. Unsaid. All that unfinished business.